THE   UNSEEN    HOST 
AND    OTHER   WAR   PLAYS 


Plays 
By  PERCIVAL  WILDE 


DAWN  and  Other  One-Act  Plays  of  Life 
To-day. 

Dawn  —  The  Noble  Lord  —  The  Traitor  —  A 
House  of  Cards  —  Playing  With  Fire  —  The 
Finger  of  God. 

CONFESSIONAL    and    Other    American 
Plays. 

Confessional  —  The  Villain  in  the  Piece  — 
According  to  Darwin  —  A  Question  of  Morality 

—  The  Beautiful  Story. 

THE    UNSEEN    HOST    and    Other  War 
Plays. 

The  Unseen  Host  —  Mothers  of  Men  —  Pawns 

—  In  the  Ravine  —  Valkyrie  ! 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

AND    OTHER    WAR    PLAYS 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 
MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

PAWNS 

IN  THE  RAVINE 
VALKYRIE! 

BY 

PERCIVAL  WILDE 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright, 
BY  PERCIVAL  WILDE. 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 

Published  September,  1917 


These  plays  in  their  printed  form  are  designed  for  the  reading 
public  only.  All  dramatic  rights  in  them  are  fully  protected  by 
copyright  in  the  United  States  and  in  Great  Britain,  and  no  per 
formance —  professional  or  amateur  —  may  be  given  without  the 
written  permission  of  the  author,  and  the  payment  of  royalty. 
During  the  progress  of  the  war  any  organization  desiring  to  present  one  or 
more  of  the  plays  in  this  volume,  and  agreeing  to  apply  the  entire  proceeds 
of  such  performance  or  performances  to  War  Relief,  through  the  agency  of 
some  body  organized  for  that  express  and  sole  purpose,  will,  upon  written 
request  in  advance,  be  exempted  from  the  payment  of  royalty.  Communi 
cations  may  be  addressed  to  the  author  in  care  of  Little,  Brown  & 
Company,  34  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


TYPOGRAPHY  BY  THE  PLIMPTON  PRESS,  NORWOOD,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 
PRINTED    BY    S.    J.    PARKHILL    &    CO.,    BOSTON,    MASS.,    U.S.A. 


To 
I.  W. 


3 82 C 73 


PREFACE 

IT  is  the  immemorial  privilege  of  authorship  to  take 
every  side  of  an  argument;  to  view  a  thing  as  it  is 
to  each  of  many  different  men.  Of  a  great  subject 
only  a  few  aspects  may  be  discerned  from  any  one 
coign  of  vantage.  It  is  the  right  of  an  author  to  look 
upon  it  through  the  eyes  of  a  multitude  of  characters, 
to  set  down  how  it  appears  to  each  one  of  them,  and  how 
they,  in  turn,  react  to  it. 

This  is  a  book  of  viewpoints. 

The  great  facts  of  life  mean  different  things  to  the 
various  persons  who  come  into  contact  with  them. 
War  is  one  of  those  facts.  It  cannot  signify  to  the 
peasant  what  it  does  to  the  educated  man;  still  it  has 
a  very  definite,  very  concrete  meaning  for  each  of  them. 
Its  meaning  changes  with  the  intellect,  the  emotional 
background,  the  character  of  each  person  who  is  affected 
by  it.  Materialist  or  ideah'st,  skeptic  or  believer,  hero 
or  craven,  each  takes  from  it  what  he  brings  to  it,  each 
finds  in  it  support  for  his  convictions. 

There  are  those,  who  like  the  Greeks,  draw  down 
then-  gods  to  champion  them  in  their  combats; 

There  are  those,  who  in  the  words  of  then-  prophet, 
believe  that  "a  good  fight  justifies  any  cause"; 

There  are  those  who  understand,  or  think  they 
understand,  and  act  accordingly; 


viii  PREFACE 


There  are  those  who  do  not  understand,  and  do  not 
wish  to  understand; 

And  there  are  those,  high  and  low,  who  may  take  no 
active  part,  but  who  suffer. 

These  disjointed  phrases,  in  a  few  words,  convey  the 
thought  behind  the  plays. 

Art  knows  no  nationality.  If  in  "Valkyrie"  the 
author  has  looked  through  German  eyes  it  is  because 
in  other  of  the  plays  he  has  looked  through  Allied  eyes. 
Without  such  a  play  the  book  would  not  be  complete. 
For  this,  neither  apologies  nor  regrets.  Our  enemies 
are  our  enemies  none  the  less  if  we  strive  to  under 
stand  them  precisely  as  they  understand  themselves. 

A  word  upon  "The  Unseen  Host/' 

Mr  Arthur  Machen's  ingenious  tale  of  "The  Bow 
men,"  despite  his  repeated  denials,  is  accepted  as  truth 
by  a  startlingly  large  number  of  people. 

One  refers  quite  casually  to  the  Angels  of  Mons; 
they  are  as  well  known  as  the  Battle  of  Mons  itself; 
they  have  passed  into  legend,  co-eval,  co-eternal  with 
the  great  conflict  which  supplies  them  with  a  back 
ground.  One  is  inclined  to  forget  that  Mr.  Machen 
evolved  them  out  of  thin  air,  and  that  their  only 
authentic  appearance  is  in  his  pages. 

At  the  Battle  of  Mons  a  mere  handful  of  British 
troops  barred  the  progress  of  an  entire  German  army 
corps.  What  was  the  explanation?  Determina 
tion;  downright  bravery;  superior  morale;  these  were 
abstractions  which  signified  little  to  a  public  which 
demanded  something  more  tangible.  And  when  Mr. 


PREFACE  ix 


Machen,  in  a  tale  made  convincing  by  its  wealth  of 
detail,  related  that  a  vegetarian  Briton,  a  member  of 
the  heroic  little  army,  had  in  the  moment  of  supreme 
trial  murmured  the  magic  words  "  Adsit  Anglis  Sanctus 
Georgius,"  and  that  thereupon,  amidst  outlandish 
shouting,  St.  George  and  the  bowmen  of  Agincourt 
had  come  to  the  relief  of  the  hard-pressed  English, 
the  public  was  satisfied.  That  numbers  do  not  invari 
ably  connote  strength;  that  a  few  resolute  men  might 
prove  a  very  serious  obstacle  to  a  force  ten  times 
greater,  this  the  public  was  not  prepared  to  believe. 
But  a  regiment  or  two,  if  reinforced  by  St.  George  and 
the  bowmen  of  Agincourt  might  accomplish  almost 
anything.  That  was  natural  and  logical. 

It  is  remarkable  that  such  beliefs  should  exist.  It 
is  remarkable  that  a  myth,  which  has  not  the  slightest 
vestige  of  evidence  to  support  it,  should  be  accepted 
as  Gospel.  But  where  there  is  the  will  to  believe,  beliefs 
will  not  be  wanting. 

Yet  Mr.  Machen  is  a  reasonable,  level-headed 
gentleman.  He  is  neither  a  ready  believer  nor  a 
scoffer.  "They  will  be  mistaken,"  he  says  of  his 
readers,  "if  they  suppose  that  I  think  miracles  in 
Judaea  credible  but  miracles  hi  France  or  Flanders 
incredible."  This  brilliant  line  of  a  brilliant  preface 
furnished  the  inspiration  for  "The  Unseen  Host." 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  offer  thanks  to  one  of  the  most  inter 
esting  figures  in  modern  literature. 

Concerning  the  plays  themselves,  nothing  more  need 
be  said.  Upon  the  stage  a  play  is  offered  to  an  audi 
ence  without  the  aid  of  long  and  elaborate  explana- 


x  PREFACE 


tions.  It  is  in  a  similar  form  that  the  printed  play 
must  be  offered  to  its  readers.  The  present  preface 
exists  only  because  the  five  plays  are  related  to  each 
other;  because  a  word  upon  that  subject  may  bring  the 
reader  to  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  the  author's 
purpose. 

New  York,  July,  1917. 


CONTEXTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE vii 

THE  UNSEEN  HOST 1 

MOTHERS  OF  MEN 17 

PAWNS 33 

IN  THE  RAVINE 63 

VALKYRIE!   .....  85 


THE    UNSEEN    HOST 

Opus  1)8 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

At  an  r  improvised  American  hospital  in  Paris.  A 
large  room,  with  the  traces  of  former  magnificence,  now 
serving  as  living  room  to  the  surgeon  in  charge.  At  the 
rear,  tall  Gothic  windows  of  leaded  glass  —  heavily 
curtained.  At  the  right,  two  doors,  huge,  ancient  —  that 
nearer  the  audience  leading  into  an  interior  room:  that 
farther  off  opening  on  the  upper  landing  of  a  staircase. 
At  the  left,  an  enormous  fireplace.  What  little  furniture 
there  is  is  massive  and  ornate.  The  most  conspicuous 
piece  is  a  heavy  table  near  the  center  of  the  room.  On 
the  table  is  a  bronze  desk  lamp. 

It  is  evening.  In  the  room  itself  no  lights  are  burning, 
and  there  is  semi-darkness. 

The  first  door  opens,  and  a  uniformed  orderly  enters 
quietly.  He  is  a  middle-aged  man  who  lacks-  an  arm; 
the  medal  on  his  breast  may  explain  why.  He  deposits 
a  sheaf  of  papers  on  the  table;  proceeds  to  the  windows 
and  closes  the  curtains. 

Steps  are  heard  ascending  the  stairs,  the  second  door 
opens,  and  the  surgeon,  a  white-clad,  elderly  American 
who  holds  himself  very  erect  despite  his  years,  stands  at 
the  threshold  deferentially  awaiting  a  compatriot  some 
ten  years  his  junior,  the  best  type  of  the  successful  American 
man  of  affairs. 
THE  SURGEON  (holding  the  door  open) 

This  way. 
THE  VISITOR  (appearing  at  the  head  of  the  flight  of  stairs) 

Is  he  in  here? 

3 


4  • .  ,  ^    THE  UNSEEN  HOST 


THE    SURGEON 

Who? 

THE   VISITOR 

The  boy  who  saw  the  angels? 

THE  SURGEON  (smiling) 

Oh,  you  haven't  forgotten  him,  have  you?  He's 
in  the  next  room.  (The  visitor  enters,  obviously 
winded  by  the  climb)  I'll  show  him  to  you  after 
wards.  Get  your  breath  first.  You  look  a  little 
exhausted. 

THE  VISITOR  (grinning) 
A  little?     Quite  a  little. 

THE    SURGEON 

Sit  down  here.  (The  orderly  proffers  a  chair.  The 
visitor  sits.  The  surgeon  turns  on  the  desk  lamp) 
This  house  was  built  before  the  Grand  Monarque 
taught  them  to  have  an  eye  to  comfort.  Magnificent 
—  splendid  —  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  mighty 
unpleasant  if  you  have  to  live  in  it.  Think  of  the 
stretcher  bearers  carrying  men  up  those  stairs ! 
THE  VISITOR 

There  ought  to  be  an  elevator. 

THE   SURGEON 

Yes. 

THE   VISITOR 

Put  one  in.     Send  me  the  bill. 
THE  SURGEON  (nodding) 

Thank  you.  We  need  it  badly.  (The  orderly  leaves 
the  room  by  the  first  door)  These  old  houses,  very 
picturesque,  very  ornamental  — 

THE  VISITOR 

But  no  conveniences? 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 


THE   SURGEON 

The  men  who  built  them  didn't  know  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  We  felt  that  when  we  turned  this  into 
a  hospital.  Think  of  it:  it  used  to  be  a  show  place! 
Not  much  left  of  it  now.  There  was  a  bed  here  — 
right  where  you  are  sitting;  one  of  those  great,  big, 
canopied  affairs  — 

THE   VISITOR 

Unsanitary. 

THE    SURGEON 

•  Very.     That's  why 'I  had  it  taken  out.     But  Henry 
of  Navarre  had  spent  a  night  in  it. 

THE  VISITOR 

Even  Henry  of  Navarre  had  to  give  way  to  modern 
efficiency ! 

THE  SURGEON  (nodding) 

Yes.  (He  points  to  the  door  through  which  the  orderly 
has  gone)  That  was  his  anteroom  the  next  morning. 
Can /you  picture  it?  The  courtiers:  the  crowds  of 
lords  and  ladies:  the  nobility  of  France  waiting 
to  greet  His  Majesty ! 

THE  VISITOR  (strolling  over) 

Nothing  like  that  to-day,  is  there? 

THE  SURGEON  (opening  the  door) 

I  don't  know.  Look!  the  rows  of  beds,  and  the 
quiet  men  who  are  lying  in  them.  The  nobility  of 
France?  Those  painted  and  bef rilled  lords  and 
ladies  were  no  whit  more  noble  than  are  these!  (He 
pauses)  The  King's  anteroom!  It  is  more  that 
now  than  it  ever  was ! 

THE  VISITOR  (understanding) 
Waiting  to  meet  His  Majesty. 


6  THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

THE  SURGEON  (dosing  the  door  quietly)  I  didn't  know 
you  were  a  poet.  But  it  doesn't  need  much  of  this 
atmosphere  to  change  a  man's  view  of  life.  It's 
intoxicating.  (He  turns)  From  these  windows  you 
could  have  watched  the  Catholics  murdering  the 
Huguenots  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
Twenty  years  later  you  would  have  seen  a  Huguenot 
king  going  to  sleep  in  this  room.  Why,  I  could  talk 
about  the  place  for  hours!  What  wonderful  men 
and  women  have  sat  where  we  are  sitting!  What 
a  glorious  company  has  passed  through  these  molder- 
ing  doors!  What  ghosts  hover  about  us  while  we 
speak! 
{The  visitor  starts  violently. 

THE   SURGEON 

What  is  it? 

THE  VISITOR 

I  thought  I  heard  something. 
THE  SURGEON  (smiling) 

They  are  friendly  ghosts.    (Shrewdly)     But 'you  said 

before  that  you  didn't  believe  in  them! 
THE  VISITOR 

Neither  I  do. 

THE   SURGEON 

Or  angels? 

THE   VISITOR 

Call  them  what  you  like. 

THE   SURGEON 

x   Well,  then? 

THE   VISITOR 

I  thought  I  saw  something.     (Apologetically)    The 
light  is  so  dim. 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 


THE    SURGEON 

The  men  in  the  next  room  don't  Like  bright  lights. 

THE   VISITOR 

But  you  can  keep  the  door  closed. 
THE  SURGEON  (slidkijig  his  head) 

It  won't  stay  closed.     It's  rickety  —  like  everything 

else  in  the  building.     (He  crosses  to  the  windows) 

I'll  open  the  curtains  if  you  like. 
THE  VISITOR  (watching  him) 

Aren't  you  afraid  of  the  Zeppelins? 

THE   SURGEON 

Too  much  of  a  fatalist  for  that.  They  were  here 
a  week  ago. 

THE   VISITOR 

And  didn't  hurt  you? 

THE   SURGEON 

Blew  up  yards  and  yards  of  pavement  with  the 
result  that  we  had  to  lay  wooden  boards  in  the  street. 
The  hospital  wasn't  damaged. 

THE  VISITOR  (evidently    referring    to    a    previous    con 
versation) 
-  Another  miracle ! 

THE   SURGEON 

,  What? 

THE  VISITOR  (mildly  bantering) 

You  seem  to  live  in  the  midst  of  the  supernatural! 
THE  SURGEON  (nodding  gravely) 

Yes. 

THE   VISITOR 

And  you  were  born  in  Bangor,  Maine,  and  studied 
medicine  at  Johns  Hopkins! 


8  THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

THE  SURGEON  (after  a  pause) 
You  are  a  Christian,  I  take  it? 

THE  VISITOR 

Why  —  naturally. 

THE   SURGEON 

You  believe  that  a  miracle  happened  in  Palestine. 
You  deny  that  another  might  happen  in  Flanders. 
THE  VISITOR  (uneasily) 

Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way  — 

THE   SURGEON 

Now  I'm  going  to  read  you  the  boy's  statement. 
[He  sits  at  the  table,  and  goes  through  the  contents  of 
one  of  the  drawers.  The  first  door  opens  slowly.  The 
visitor  watches  it,  fascinated.  He  draws  his  breath 
sharply.  The  surgeon  looks  up;  takes  in  the  situa 
tion. 

THE  VISITOR 

The  door's  opening! 

THE   SURGEON 

I  warned  you;  it  has  a  habit  of  doing  that. 
{/The  orderly  enters  through  the  opened  door,  crosses 
to  the  other  door,  goes.     The  visitor  draws  a  breath 
of  relief. 
THE  SURGEON  (smiling) 

For  a  disbeliever  you  are  easily  startled.  (The 
visitor  does  not  reply)  Now  listen.  (He  reads) 
"I  saw  them.  I  know  I  saw  them.  Whether  they 
were  angels,  whether  they  were  devils,  whether  they 
were  living  or  dead,  I  do  not  know.  But  they  were 
shining  shapes,  and  nothing  could  withstand  them. 
We  were  pressed  —  hard  pressed.  Another  ten 
minutes,  and  it  would  have  been  all  over  with  us. 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 


We  would  have  been  crushed  by  the  advancing  hordes, 
trodden  under  into  the  mire.  And  then  I  heard  a 
tramping,  a  tramping  gradually  growing  louder,  a 
tramping  first  challenging  the  roar  of  the  battle,  and 
then  overwhelming  it,  drowning  it,  so  that  all  sound 
had  become  one  huge  rhythmic  tramp,  tramp,  tramp ! 
I  thought  my  eardrums  would  burst.  And  then  I 
looked  up  and  beheld  the  light  reflected  on  their 
armor,  and  the  sky  filled  with  a  huge  glitter,  and  the 
rays  of  the  sun  shining  through  showers  of  arrows! 
And  the  enemy  melted  away  before  us :  melted  by  the 
hundreds;  by  the  thousands;  by  the  tens  of  thou 
sands;  and  those  celestial  hosts  tramped  upwards, 
tramped  up  that  invisible  pathway  into  the  heavens, 
tramped  out  of  sight!" 
\Jle  stops. 

THE  VISITOR  (after  a  pause) 
And  then? 

THE   SURGEON 

Then  a  bullet  struck  him,  and  he  was  unconscious 
until  they  brought  him  here. 

THE   VISITOR    (after    another    pause;    emphasizing    the 
inconsistency) 
Tramping  ghosts! 

THE   SURGEON 

Why  not? 
THE  VISITOR  (positively) 

Ghosts  are  noiseless. 
THE  SURGEON  (shrewdly) 

If  you  speak  from  experience  — 
THE  VISITOR  (nettled) 

I  didn't  say  I  believed  in  them. 


10  THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

THE  SURGEON  (innocently) 

No;  you  said  quite  the  opposite. 
THE  VISITOR  (dogmatically) 

Anyhow,  ghosts  don't  tramp ! 
THE  SURGEON  (gently  bantering) 

Not  even  a  ghostly  tramp?    They  clank  chains,  I 

am  told.     Why  shouldn't  their  steps  have  a  sound? 

A  sort  of  a  hollow,  ghostly  sound? 

THE   VISITOR 

Bah!  Are  you  sure  the  bullet  struck  him  after  he 
saw  the  —  the  angels? 

THE   SURGEON 

So  he  says. 

THE   VISITOR 

Hm!  And  you  take  his  word  for  it!  (He  walks  over 
to  the  door)  Dying,  you  say? 

THE   SURGEON 

Three  quarters  dead  already. 

THE   VISITOR 

And  young? 

THE   SURGEON 

Nineteen  —  one  of  thousands.  Oh,  it's  not  romantic 
in  the  least.  He's  barely  conscious;  and  he's 
waiting  to  go  back  to  the  front.  He  thinks  he's 
going  to  get  well. 

THE   VISITOR 

They  all  think  that,  don't  they?    He  won't? 

THE   SURGEON 

Never  in  this  world.  Queer,  isn't  it?  Shot  clean 
through  the  body;  suffering  like  the  devil,  and  all 
he's  thinking  of  is  when  he's  to  go  back  —  when  he's 
to  rejoin  his  regiment! 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST  11 

THE   VISITOR 

Like  an  animal  trying  to  return  to  the  slaughter 
pen. 

THE  SURGEON  (pointedly) 
Yes:   if  animals  saw  angels. 

THE  VISITOR 

Hm!  (He  pauses)  Do  you  really  believe  he  saw 
them? 

THE   SURGEON 

I  read  you  his  statement. 

THE   VISITOR 

Which  he  wrote  himself? 

THE   SURGEON 

Hardly;  he  knows  no  English. 

THE   VISITOR 

Why  didn't  you  take  it  down  in  the  original? 

THE   SURGEON 

I  did.  (He  produces  a  second  sheet  of  paper)  Here 
it  is.  (He  pauses;  smiles)  I  translated  it,  para 
phrased  it,  for  my  own  pleasure,  if  you  like.  The 
original  is  a  mass  of  ejaculations;  short  phrases, 
repeated  over  and  over  again.  I  tried  to  make  it 
coherent. 

THE   VISITOR 

And  repeated  it  back  to  him?  (The  surgeon  shakes 
his  head)  Why  not? 

THE   SURGEON 

He  takes  no  notice  of  anything. 

THE   VISITOR 

Oh!  Not  quite  in  his  senses? 

THE   SURGEON 

No. 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST 


THE   VISITOR 

Raving?    And  you  believe  his  ravings? 

THE   SURGEON 

I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve. 

THE   VISITOR 

But  an  insane  man? 
THE  SURGEON  (with  emphasis) 

Who  has  not  had  the  education  to  invent  what  he 

told  me!     Imaginative?     Not  in  the  least.     He  was 

a  farm  hand  before  the  war. 
THE  VISITOR  (persistently) 

Still,  in  his  delirium  — 
THE  SURGEON  (interrupting) 

He  wouldn't  rave  like  a  poet.     You  forget  :  I  have  lis 

tened  to  so  many  others.     (He  pauses)     You  think  I 

am  credulous.     Perhaps.     I  neither  affirm  nor  deny. 

They  tell  me  of  these  things  they  call  miracles  — 
THE  VISITOR  (interrupting) 

And  you  ask  no  explanation? 

THE   SURGEON 

Why  must  there  be  one? 

THE   VISITOR 

There  always  is. 

THE   SURGEON 

Yes;  generally  more  miraculous  than  the  miracle 
itself.  (He  pauses;  then,  with  solemnity)  When, 
in  the  twentieth  century,  I  myself  have  seen  millions 
of  men  leaving  their  peaceful  homes,  their  work, 
their  occupations,  to  kill  one  another,  I  say  that  is 
such  a  dreadful,  such  an  unbelievable  miracle  that 
next  to  it  everything  else  becomes  insignificant.  If 
this  paperweight  were  to  turn  into  a  roaring  lion 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST  13 

before  my  eyes  I  would  say  that  too  was  a  miracle 
—  but  that  all  of  humanity  had  been  witness  to  a 
greater ! 
\_The  first  door  opens  slowly. 

THE  VISITOR  (calling  attention  to  it  without  alarm) 
The  door  is  opening  again. 
[The  surgeon  goes  to  it  without  a  word;  closes  it. 

THE  VISITOR  (as  he  does  so) 

You  would  say  that  the  soul  of  the  dying  soldier  has 
come  through  that  door  on  its  way  to  rejoin  its 
regiment ! 

THE  SURGEON  (nodding  gravely) 
If  I  w^ere  a  poet. 

[As  he  speaks  the  second  door  opens  deliberately.  He 
watches  it  with  a  smile;  the  visitor  with  curious  fas 
cination. 

THE  VISITOR 

Gad! 

[The  door  closes  of  its  own  accord. 
THE  VISITOR  (repeating  as  if  hypnotized} 

To  rejoin  its  regiment! 
THE  SURGEON  (after  a  pause) 

You  didn't  notice  — 
THE  VISITOR  (sharply) 

What? 
THE  SURGEON  (mildly) 

To  me  —  the  room  seemed  somewhat  lighter  for  an 

instant. 
THE  VISITOR 

Bah! 

THE   SURGEON 

A  poetic  conception  of  yours:    the  soul  joins  the 


14  THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

regiment   of   souls !     All   around   us  —  above   us  — 
within  us  —  the  unseen  host  gathers  its  forces ! 
[[There  is  the  very,  very  faint  sound  of  a  bugle  in  the 
distance. 

THE  VISITOR  (under  his  breath) 
Did  you  hear? 

THE    SURGEON 

»  I  heard.      , 

THE  VISITOR 

A  bugle ! 

THE   SURGEON 

Yes. 

[^They  listen,  and  gradually  there  commences  a  curious, 
hollow,  rhythmic  tramp.  Very  subdued  at  first,  it 
increases  slowly  in  volume,  without  in  the  least  acceler 
ating  its  precise,  martial  rhythm.  It  grows  louder, 
and  louder,  and  louder;  and  nearer.  The  building 
seems  to  vibrate  with  the  rhythmically  recurrent  footfall. 
The  visitor  rushes  to  the  windows.  He  peers  out. 
Then,  in  a  tone  of  awe: 

THE  VISITOR 

Fog!  Nothing  but  fog! 

^Utterly  bewildered,  he  turns.  The  tramping  swells 
into  a  climax.  Then,  more  quickly  than  it  has  grown, 
ebbs  into  silence. 

THE  VISITOR  (breathlessly) 
What  was  it? 

THE   SURGEON 

A  regiment  marching  by. 

THE   VISITOR 

But  the  tramp?    The  hollow  tramp? 


THE  UNSEEN  HOST  15 

THE  SURGEON  (eery  matter  of  fact) 

I  told  you  —  there  is  a  board  pavement. 
THE  VISITOR  (breaking    into    a    high-pitched,    hysterical 

laugh) 

So  there  is!     So  there  is! 

\_The  second  door  opens,  and  the  orderly  9  very  much 

excited,  stands  on  the  threshold. 

THE  ORDERLY 

Doctor! 

THE  SURGEON 

Yes? 

THE  ORDERLY 

The  boy  —  the  boy  who  saw  the  angels  —  where  is  he? 

THE   SURGEON 

In  there. 

THE   ORDERLY 

You  are  sure? 

[The  men  look  at  each  other  silently. 

THE    SURGEON 

Why  do  you  ask? 

THE    ORDERLY 

I  saw  him! 

THE   VISITOR 

T&hat? .._ 

THE   ORDERLY 

In  the  front  ranks !     With  my  own  eyes !     I  saw  him ! 

\_TJie  surgeon  hurries  out  of  the  room. 
THE  VISITOR  (after  a  tense  pause) 

He  was  dying.     Did  you  know  that? 
THE  ORDERLY  (gravely) 

I  knew. 

[The  surgeon  reenters. 


16  THE  UNSEEN  HOST 

THE   VISITOR 

Well? 

THE  SURGEON  (nodding  quietly) 
Dead. 

THE   ORDERLY 

I  saw  him!    With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  him! 

THE   SURGEON 

Dead  not  five  minutes. 
THE  VISITOR  (staggered) 

But  —  but  such  things  don't  happen!    There  were 
thousands  of  boys  like  him ! 

THE   SURGEON    (slowly) 

Yes. 
THE  VISITOR  (turning  fiercely  on  the  orderly) 

You  must  have  been  mistaken ! 
THE  ORDERLY  (changing  the  word  pointedly) 

I  might  have  been  mistaken. 

THE   SURGEON 

Then,  again,  you  might  not  have  been  — 

\_The    orderly    nods    quietly,    under  standingly.     The 

visitor  gasps.  .  .  . 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  SLOWLY 


MOTHERS    OF    MEN 

Opus  46 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"A  sumptuously  furnished  drawing-room;  magnificent 
furniture,  priceless  paintings,  rugs  more  yielding  than 
moss.  And  everything  beautiful,  costly,  and  in  the  best 
of  good  taste." 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  will,  imagine  the  precise  opposite. 
Not  that  anything  that  strikes  his  eye  is  distinctly  shabby, 
or  that  any  particle  of  dust  mars  the  neatness  of  the 
room;  for  Mrs.  Chepstowe  prides  herself  on  her  house 
keeping,  and  would  feel  justly  slighted  at  any  animadver 
sions  upon  it.  But  the  furniture  presents  that  curious 
conglomerate  effect  which  indicates  a  compromise  between 
comfort  and  fashion.  The  late  Mr.  Chepstowe  cared 
entirely  for  the  former;  his  widow  struggled  as  best  she 
could  for  the  latter.  The  result  is  distressing:  could  not 
have  been  more  distressing  even  if  Hie  family  purse  had 
been  deeper.  For  the  room  is  crammed  with  an  abundance 
of  poorly  designed  and  cheaply  made  movables.  In  the 
care  of  a  less  conscientious  owner  they  icould  have  fallen 
to  pieces  long  ago.  But  by  dint  of  plenty  of  elbow  grease 
they  retain  sojnething  of  their  pristine  condition,  some 
thing  of  the  congenital  senility,  of  the  old-maidish  stiffness 
and  primness  of  the  Victorian  period. 

"  There  is  no  place  like  home,"  sang  the  poet.  He  never 
knew  how  literally  truthful  his  asseveration  might  become. 
For  each  of  the  thousand  two-room  apartments  which 
Maida  Vale  boasts  rejoices  in  monstrosities  peculiar  to 

19 


20  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

itself,  sufficient  to  differentiate  it  immediately  from  all 
the  others. 

In  the  center  of  her  beloved  horrors  sits  Mrs.  Chep- 
stowe  herself,  a  well-preserved  widow  of  some  fifty  odd 
years,  with  "middle-class"  almost  visibly  written  over 
her  features.  Mr.  Chepstowe  had  considered  himself 
part  of  the  backbone  of  the  British  nation,  and  had  an 
nounced  himself  as  such  times  without  number  over  the 
counter  of  his  ironmonger's  shop  on  Ludgate  Hill.  His 
widow  continues  to  live  up  to  his  reputation,  and  as  she 
sits  knitting  in  her  easy-chair  this  crisp  October  afternoon, 
her  thoughts  wander  with  a  certain  pride  to  the  past, 
which  was  a  tedious  but  emphatic  uphill  climb,  and  with 
a  sudden  pang  to  the  present,  for,  like  a  million  other 
British  women,  she  has  a  son  "somewhere  in  France," 
and  would  give  much  to  see  him  face  to  face. 
The  doorbell  rings. 

Mrs.    Chepstowe  folds   her    knitting   carefully,   risesy 
and  leaves  the  room.     She  is  heard  to  open  the  door  to  the 
hall.     There    is    a    sound    of  voices.    Presently   words 
become  distinguishable. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (outside) 

If  you  will  step  in  here  .  .  .  (She  opens  the  door  to  the 
living  room.  A  woman  of  the  same  age,  but  far  better 
dressed,  —  presumably  a  member  of  fashionable  society, 
precedes  her  into  the  room)  Yes?  What  can  I  do  for 
you?  (But  the  caller  is  in  a  fearful  state  of  excitement, 
trembling,  flustered,  unable  to  speak  coherently,  and 
Mrs.  Chepstowe  recognizes  it)  Won't  you  sit  down? 
[_She  offers  a  chair. 

THE  CALLER  (sitting,  with  a  gasp  of  relief) 
Thank  you. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 21 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

And  a  cup  of  tea? 

THE   CALLER 

No,  no. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (proceeding  towards  the  tea-table) 
It  will  take  only  a  minute. 

THE   CALLER 

No,  no.     I  couldn't  drink  anything. 

[There  is  a  pause.     Then  Mrs.  Chepstowe  makes  an 

effort  to  relieve  the  situation. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Lovely  weather  we've  been  having,  isn't  it?  And 
so  unusual  at  this  time  of  year.  I  went  for  a  walk 
yesterday,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  enjoyed  any 
thing  so  much. 

THE   CALLER 

Yes,  yes. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

I  started  bright  and  early  in  the  morning.  (She 
checks  off  on  her  fingers)  Abercorn  Place,  Abbey 
Road,  Maryborough  Road,  Queen's  Road,  all  the 
way  to  Primrose  Park.  Then  I  came  back  by  way 
of  Park  Road  and  St.  John's  Wood.  I  felt  quite 
refreshed. 
[She  pauses. 

THE  CALLER  (taking  up  her  subject  suddenly) 
You  are  Mrs.  Albert  Chepstowe? 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Yes. 

THE   CALLER 

I  am  Mrs.  Howard  Chepstowe. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 


MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (interested) 

Oh,  we  have  the  same  name,  haven't  we?  And  it's 
such  an  unusual  name.  Do  your  husband's  people 
come  from  Lancashire,  by  any  chance? 

THE  CALLER  (with  a  visible  effort) 
No:  Devon. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (disappointed} 

Oh.  I  didn't  know  there  were  any  Chepstowes 
living  there.  (Confidentially]  There  was  an  aunt 
of  my  husband's  who  was  so  much  interested  in 
genealogy,  and  who  traced  the  Chepstowe  family  all 
the  way  back  to  the  Conquest.  She'd  have  been 
so  glad  to  know  you. 

THE  CALLER  (interrupting  abruptly) 

Mrs.  Chepstowe,  this  came  for  me  yesterday. 
\_Shefumbles  in  her  chatelaine,  and  pulls  out  an  envelope 
with  the  royal  crest  and  the  H.  M.  B.  frank  on  it. 
Mrs.  Chepstowe  takes  it,  but  recognizes  its  import  even 
before  she  has  opened  the  flap. 

MRS.   CHEPSTOWE 

You  poor  thing! 

THE  CALLER  (breaking  into  tears) 
You  know  what  it  is? 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Every  woman  in  the  Kingdom  knows.     Every  woman 
in  the  Kingdom  is  afraid  of  getting  such  a  letter  any 
day.     (She  shakes  her  head  in  sympathy)     Who  was 
it?    Your  husband? 
THE  CALLER  (between  her  sobs) 
No  —  he's  been  dead  many  years. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Then  your  son? 


MOTHERS   OF   MEN  23 

THE    CALLER 

My  son.     My  only  son. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.     I  really  don't. 
[[There  is  a  pause. 

THE   CALLER 

For  a  week,  no  letter  from  him.  Then  this:  killed 
at  La  Bassee,  the  twenty-ninth. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

The  twenty  -ninth?    That  was  Michaelmas. 

THE    CALLER 

As  if  it  made  any  difference  what  day  it  was!  All 
that  I  know  is  that  from  now  on  it  will  be  the  most 
terrible  day  in  the  year  to  me.  The  twenty-ninth; 
I  went  to  theater  that  evening.  Perhaps  the  letter 
was  even  then  on  its  way  to  me  ...  Yesterday 
it  came,  with  the  first  mail.  What  I  have  gone 
through  since  —  you  can't  imagine ! 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (gently) 

I  don't  have  to  imagine.  I  have  a  son  at  the  front 
myself.  (She  pauses;  smiles  sadly.  The  caller  makes 
no  remark)  He  didn't  enlist  in  the  early  days  of  the 
war.  An  only  child,  you  see,  and  I  wasn't  anxious 
to -have  him  go.  Just  the  two  of  us  there  were,  and 
I  thought  the  mothers  who  had  more  than  one  son 
might  give  up  some  of  theirs.  I  had  no  one  but  Tom. 
So  we  talked  it  over.  He  was  eager;  said  that  Eng 
land  needed  every  man  who  was  strong  enough  to 
shoulder  a  gun,  but  he  looked  at  me,  and  around  our 
cosy  little  home,  and  he  must  have  seen  the  expression 
in  my  eyes,  because  he  said  he'd  wait  a  while.  And 
I  said,  "Yes,  Tom."  And  then  he'd  come  home 


24  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

evenings,  and  tell  me  how  his  friends  had  gone  off, 
and  how  Dickie  Fitzgerald  was  a  corporal  now,  and 
how  Will  Tupper,  that  great,  big,  hulking  fellow, 
who  they  thought  would  never  amount  to  anything, 
had  gotten  the  V.  C.  Will  Tupper,  whom  Tom  had 
given  a  beating  in  his  school  days!  Then  he'd  pick 
up  the  paper,  and  he'd  say,  "Mother,  Kitchener 
needs  more  men."  I  knew  what  was  coming,  but  I 
acted  as  if  it  was  nothing.  I  said,  "Yes,  Tom." 
We  come  of  an  old  fighting  stock,  you  know.  His 
great-grandfather  fought  through  the  Peninsular 
War.  It  was  his  blood  in  Tom's  veins,  and  it  needed 
more  than  I  could  add  to  cool  it  down.  So  I  said 
nothing,  but  I  went  over  Tom's  clothes  —  saw  that 
he  had  warm  underwear,  and  heavy  socks.  And 
then,  then,  I  had  always  thought  it  would  be  of  an 
evening,  but  it  wasn't  —  it  was  after  breakfast  one 
Sunday,  Tom  pushed  his  plate  away,  and  looked 
at  me  —  just  looked  at  me.  I  knew  what  it  meant. 
Without  his  saying  a  word,  I  knew  what  it  meant.*' 
I  had  seen  that  look  so  often  in  my  dreams  and  I  had 
awakened  so  often  trembling,  hoping  it  was  only  a 
nightmare.  But  I  said,  "Yes,  Tom."  (She  bows 
her  head  and  is  silent  an  instant)  He  took  me  in 
his  arms,  and  I  put  my  lips  up  to  his  —  he 's  much 
taller  than  I  —  and  he  said,  "Little  mother,  I'm 
going  to  leave  you  to-morrow,"  and  I  said,  "Yes, 
Tom."  He  squared  his  shoulders,  did  my  boy,  and 
he  said,  "There's  a  man's  work  to  be  done,"  and  — 
and  the  next  night  I  ate  my  supper  alone. 
THE  CALLER  (after  a  pause,  gently) 
I  know  how  you  felt. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  25 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (nodding,  and  wiping  away  a  tear) 
I  used  to  say  that  to  myself :  that  there  were  so  many 
other  mothers  whose  sons  meant  just  as  much  to 
them  as  mine  meant  to  me.  But  I  can't  believe  it. 
I  don't  suppose  any  of  them  believe  it.  That's 
what  it  is  to  be  a  mother. 

THE  CALLER  (half  to  herself) 
They're  all  alike,  aren't  they? 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (without  answering) 

I  know  how  I  used  to  worry  about  his  scrapes  when 
he  was  at  school.  He  wasn't  a  bad  boy,  but  he  was 
a  mischievous  boy:  he  was  always  up  to  something. 
(She  smiles)  One  day  he  came  home  full  of  splinters: 
more  splinters  than  boy,  I  think.  He  had  climbed 
the  flag-pole,  and  slid  down  too  fast.  Anybody  else 
would  have  broken  a  leg,  at  least.  Tom  wasn't  a 
bit  upset;  would  have  done  it  again,  except  that  the 
splinters  hurt.  Another  day  he  fell  out  of  the 
window,  trying  to  see  who  could  lean  out  furthest. 
He  won.  (She  pauses)  "Well,  after  a  few  of  those 
things  had  happened  it  wasn't  so  bad.  I  made  up 
my  mind  he  wasn't  born  to  be  killed  —  or  he  'd  have 
been  killed  long  ago.  That's  the  one  thought  that 
comforts  me  to-day.  (With  sudden  recollection) 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  thoughtless. 

THE   CALLER 

You  needn't  apologize.  I  used  to  think  the  same 
thing  about  my  son.  The  scrapes  that  he  got  into  at 
Eton?  Why,  it  makes  my  hair  stand  on  end  even  to 
think  of  them.  And  Cambridge  was  no  better; 
it  wasn't  six  months  before  he  was  hit  over  the  head 
playing  polo. 


26  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Oh,  your  son  played  polo?     (Naively)     You  must 

be  rich. 
THE  CALLER  (embarrassed) 

Mr.  Chepstowe  was  well-to-do. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (eagerly) 

What  was  his  business?     My  Mr.  Chepstowe  was  an 

ironmonger. 

THE   CALLER 

He  had  no  business. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (surprised) 
What? 

THE   CALLER 

He  was  a  gentleman. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (vastly  impressed) 

A  gentleman!  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
(She  shakes  her  head)  I  always  wanted  to  be  rich, 
if  only  for  what  I  could  have  done  for  my  boy.  Eton 
—  and  Cambridge  —  and  polo  —  I  always  wanted 
him  to  have  such  things,  but  I  could  never  afford 
them.  (Looking  at  the  caller  with  added  respect) 
Your  son  must  have  been  an  officer? 

THE   CALLER 

No. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Not  an  officer? 

THE   CALLER 

He  enlisted  the  day  war  was  declared.  He  had  had 
no  experience.  I  could  have  gotten  him  a  commis 
sion,  but  he  wouldn't  take  it:  said  he  wasn't  fit 
to  command  men  who  knew  more  than  he  did. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  27 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (appreciatively) 

That  was  fine,  wasn't  it?  I  suppose  they  sent  him 
off  to  one  of  the  training  camps? 

THE   CALLER 

Yes. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

That's  what  they  did  with  my  boy.  Just  to  think  of 
it!  In  a  training  camp,  along  with  gentlemen! 
And  then  — 

THE    CALLER 

Off  to  France. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (with  a  sudden  change  of  tone) 
Yes;  off  to  France. 

{/There  is  a  pause.  The  caller  is  evidently  ill  at  ease. 
Then  she  continues,  rather  abruptly. 

THE    CALLER 

Mrs.  Chepstowe,  I  don't  know  what  you'll  think  of 
me,  but  — 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Yes? 

THE   CALLER 

You're  so  wonderful  about  it  that  I  don't  know  what 
to  say.  And  it  was  the  only  reason  I  came  here. 
(She  stops  uncertainly.  Mrs.  Chepstowe  is  silent. 
The  caller  takes  the  plunge)  Do  you  know  a  man 
named  Safford? 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Safford? 

THE   CALLER 

Lieutenant  the  Honorable  Cecil  Safford? 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

The  Honorable?  How  should  I  know  an  Honorable? 


28  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

THE  CALLER  (avoiding  Mrs.  Chepstowe's  eyes) 

He  was  badly  wounded  some  time  ago:  so  badly 
they  didn't  dare  move  him.  He  was  invalided  home 
this  week  .  .  .  He  was  in  the  same  regiment  as  my 
son.  When  —  when  the  letter  came,  I  stopped  in 
to  see  him. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (anticipating) 

And  he  told  you  that  your  son  died  fighting  bravely  — 

THE  CALLER  (interrupting  with  ill-concealed  excitement) 
He  hadn't  heard.  He  didn't  know  until  I  told  him. 
He  wasn't  with  the  regiment  then.  He  had  been 
wounded  before  that.  I  told  you. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

I'm  sorry;  I  forgot. 

THE   CALLER 

He  was  shocked  to  hear  about  my  son.     They  had 
been   close   friends;    were   in   Cambridge   together. 
But  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  — 
[She  breaks  off. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (encouragingly) 
Yes? 

THE  CALLER  (with  averted  face) 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think  of  me  for  saying  this 
—  it's  too  terrible.  (In  desperation)  But  I  'm  a 
mother,  you  know,  and  he's  my  only  son.  Lieu 
tenant  Safford  suddenly  recalled  that  there  was 
another  man  in  the  regiment  with  the  same  name 
as  my  son. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (rising  terror-stricken) 

The  same  name  as  your  son?     What  do  you  mean? 

THE  CALLER  (also  rising} 

Your  son's  name  is  Tom  Chepstowe? 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 29 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Well? 
THE  CALLER  (facing  her  with  compressed  lips) 

That  was  the  name! 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (with  a  wail) 

Oh,  how  could  you! 
THE  CALLER  (with  a  fierce  resolution) 

To    a    mother    anything    is   permitted.     The    same 

name,  the  same  regiment;   they  might  have  made  a 

mistake. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE! 

How  dare  you! 

THE   CALLER 

It's  my  son  or  your  son ! 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

My  son  wasn't  born  to  be  killed ! 

THE   CALLER 

7  thought  the  same  thing. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

But  I  know! 

THE    CALLER 

I  went  to  the  War  Office,  and  they  told  me  — 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (interrupting) 
That  there  was  no  mistake. 

THE  CALLER  (with  emphasis) 

That  they  would  try  and  make  sure.  (Breaking 
down  suddenly)  Mrs.  Chepstowe,  for  twenty-four 
hours  they've  been  trying  to  make  sure!  I  thought 
I'd  go  mad!  For  twenty-four  hours  I've  been 
living  there,  going  from  one  clerk  to  another,  directed, 
misdirected,  and  they're  all  so  kind,  and  they  don't 


30 MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

know,  (with  pathetic  sarcasm)  and  they're  trying  to 
make  sure.    And  in  the  meantime  — ! 
\_She  breaks  off  in  agony. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (regaining  something  of  her  equanimity 
after  a  pause) 
It  isn't  my  son.    I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday. 

THE   CALLER 

I  had  a  letter  from  my  son  to-day  \ 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (horrified) 
No! 

THE   CALLER 

Dated  the  twenty-eighth.  (As  the  other  looks  her 
incredulity,  she  fumbles  in  her  bag  and  pulls  out  a 
crumpled  note)  Don't  you  believe  me?  Listen  to 
this:  "Dear  Mater —  (She  chokes;  reaches  the 
note  to  Mrs.  Chepstowe)  Read  it  yourself  if  you  like. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (recoiling  in  horror) 
No!  No! 

THE   CALLER 

I  couldn't  stand  it  alone!     It  was  more  than  I  could 
bear!     I    came    to    you   because   you   must    listen! 
Because  you  are  the  one  woman  in  the  world  who 
must  share  my  agony  with  me! 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (with  unutterable  loathing) 
You  beast ! 

THE   CALLER 

That's  right !  Call  me  names !  Call  me  all  the  names 
you  like!  I  know  how  you  feel.  And  I  would  feel 
the  same  in  your  place.  But  I  had  to  do  it!  At 
the  War  Office,  a  thousand  other  women,  trying  to 
find  out,  running  from  clerk  to  clerk,  running  from 
door  to  door,  trying  to  make  sure.  They  didn't 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  31 

have  time  to  listen  to  me.     They  were  too  busy  tell 
ing  their  own  stories.     But  you  —  you  must  listen! 
You  must  hear  me ! 
{There  is  a  pause. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (with  a  quivering  gesture  of  the  thumb) 
Mrs.  Chepstowe,  the  door  —  the  door! 

THE    CALLER 

What? 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (trying  to  control  herself) 
Will  you  go?  —  or  shall  I  throw  you  out? 
{The  door-bell   rings.     The   women  face   each   other, 
motionless,    panting.     Then   Mrs.    Chepstowe   collects 
herself,  and  leaves  the  room  quietly.     A  pause.     Then, 
from  outside,  comes  a  pitiable  gasp.     The  caller  raises 
her  head  in  instant  comprehension;   rushes  to  the  door; 
flings  it  open.     Outside  stands  Mrs.  Chepstowe,  tot 
tering,  barely  keeping  herself  erect  —  and  there  is  an 
envelope  in  her  hand. 

THE  CALLER  (in  an  hysterical  outburst) 

I  was  right!  I  knew  it!  Thank  God!  I  was  right! 
I  was  right! 

[3/rs.  Chepstowe  advances  slowly  into  the  room: 
advances  irith  the  unsure  step  of  a  sick  woman.  The 
caller  suddenly  regains  control  of  herself;  is  motionless, 
save  for  the  nervous  twitching  of  her  lips,  and  her 
rapid  breathing. 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (in  an  absolutely  colorless  voice) 
Let  me  see  your  letter. 

THE    CALLER 

Yes;  yes.     Of  course. 
hands  it  over. 


32  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

La  Bassee  —  September    twenty-ninth  —  your  son. 
THE  CALLER  (gently) 

No:  yours. 
MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (in  the  same  dispassionate  tones) 

Mine  —  at  Loos  —  October  second. 
THE  CALLER  (in  a  ghastly  whisper) 

What? 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

Loos  —  October  second. 

THE  CALLER  (terror-stricken) 

Give  me  the  letters.  (She  snatches  them  from  Mrs. 
Chepstowe's  icy  hand;  compares  them.  Then,  with 
a  heart-rending  cry)  Both ! 

MRS.  CHEPSTOWE  (with  quiet  assent) 
Both. 

THE  CALLER  (dropping  the  letters  to  the  floor) 
Oh,  my  God! 

£A  pause.  Quivering,  the  women  face  each  other. 
Their  hands  clench  nervously;  their  mouths  are  half 
open,  as  if  they  were  beasts  about  to  spring  at  each  other's 
throats.  And  in  the  half  second  that  has  passed,  both 
of  them  look  older  —  so  much  older!  And  Mrs.  Chep- 
stowe's  breath  comes  more  quickly  —  and  still  more 
quickly,  and  the  other  woman  faces  her  gaspingly, 
as  a  rabbit  faces  a  snake.  An  instant's  pause;  then 
both  collapse,  fall  into  each  other's  arms,  weeping. 

MRS.    CHEPSTOWE 

You  poor  woman !    You  poor  woman ! 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


PAWNS 

Opua  U 


PAWNS 

The  lights  are  extinguished.     The  prologue  is  spoken 
by  a  male  voice. 

Frontier!  What  images  the  mere  word  suggests! 
Barbed  wire,  and  sentries,  and  eternal  vigilance, 
even  in  times  of  peace.  To  the  traveler,  a  place 
where  certain  necessary  inconveniences  must  be 
encountered.  To  the  native,  the  end  of  the  world. 
To  the  statesman,  an  irksome  demarcation,  pain 
fully  cramping,  encroaching,  which,  some  day,  for 
no  reason  now  apparent,  must  be  moved  farther  off, 
as  a  result  of  which  various  colored  ribbons,  jeweled 
badges,  and  sonorous  titles  will  accrue  to  the  said 
statesman,  until  his  alien  confreres,  in  turn,  find  pre 
texts  to  move  the  line  back  to  the  precise  degree  of 
longitude  which  originally  marked  it,  or  perhaps, 
even  beyond  that  point.  Then  the  whole  process 
will  commence  again,  and  statesmen  will  invent  new 
pretexts,  and  monarchs  new  color  combinations  for 
their  ribbons.  And  in  the  cloistered  seclusion  of 
the  colleges,  anaemic  professors  will  compile  learned 
histories,  immortalizing  the  statesmen,  and  only 
incidentally  celebrating  the  role  that  then*  country 
men  have  played,  these  same  countrymen  now  sepul- 
tured  in  battleground,  cemeteries,  and  so  forth, 
under  long-winded  inscriptions  which  nine  tenths  of 
them,  lately  become  heroes,  would  not  have  been 
able  to  decipher  in  life. 

35 


36  PAWNS 


In  accordance  with  treaties  of  peace,  new  frontiers 
will  come  into  existence,  with  new  sentries,  new 
barbed  wire,  new  vigilance. 

But  there  are  frontiers  where  no  human  sentries  are 
needed  —  or  possible;  where,  in  the  impenetrable 
depths  of  the  marshes,  bullfrogs  swim  across  the 
invisible  line  a  thousand  times  in  the  course  of  a  day, 
without  troubling  themselves  to  decide  whether  they 
are  German  bullfrogs  —  or  French  bullfrogs  —  or 
Austrian  bullfrogs — or  Russian  bullfrogs.  And  such 
places  there  are  in  plenty  along  the  southwestern 
Russian  border,  where  alternating  hill  and  valley, 
precipice  and  abyss,  virgin  forest  and  unlit  swamp 
land  have  seen  no  sentries,  save  only  those  whom 
Nature  placed  there,  since  time  began. 
It  is  near  one  of  these  natural  barriers  that  the  scene 
is  laid;  a  barrier  almost  impassable  to  the  stranger, 
but  an  easy  and  accustomed  path  to  the  native, 
who  threads  its  tortuous  windings  without  fear.  In 
deed,  he  looks  upon  it  as  a  most  useful  friend;  but 
for  it,  townspeople,  not  so  far  away,  would  have 
reached  out  cunning  hands  for  the  few  acres  he 
cultivates  with  so  much  labor;  because  of  it  they 
leave  him  alone,  him,  and  his  similarly  situated 
neighbors. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  such  places  men  are  de 
nationalized;  are  neither  Russian  nor  Austrian,  but 
are  Volhynian  —  or  Galician  —  or  Podolian,  without 
having  a  clear  idea,  in  their  isolation,  of  what  the 
terms  mean,  until  war  comes  and  the  Volhynian  is 
told  that  the  Podolian  is  his  ally  and  the  Galician 
his  enemy,  is  given  a  gun,  and  told  to  glorify  God 


PAWNS  37 


and  his  country  by  shooting  straight  and  wasting 

no  ammunition.  .  .  . 

The  voice  ceases. 

Chimes. 

TJie  curtain  rises  in  darkness. 

Night:  near  the  end  of  night,  before  'morning.  A 
forest  of  swampy  nature.  Here  and  there,  little  irregular 
hummocks  of  ground.  Frogs  croaking.  Near  the  center, 
a  small  fire,  with  a  thin,  straight  flame,  casting  but  little 
light,  so  that  ten  feet  away  from  it  there  is  darkness. 

Three  men  are  grouped  about  the  fire:  Grigor,  a  Russian 
peasant  in  his  fifties,  bearded,  grave,  with  something  of  the 
pecidiar  dignity  which  his  class  acquires  as  it  ages;  Stepan, 
his  older  son,  enormous,  powerful,  bearded,  stretched  out 
full  length  on  the  ground,  and  the  younger  son,  Ilia, 
hardly  more  than  a  boy. 

A  pause. 
ILIA 

An  hour  more,  and  it  will  be  light.     I  can  tell  by  the 

croaking  of  the  frogs.     It  is  as  if  they  were  afraid 

of  the  light.     Their  croaking  is  different.     Listen! 

£4  pause. 
GRIGOR 

Thirty  versts  more  to  Zawichost. 

IMA 

Is  it  so  far?    That  is  farther  than  I  have  ever  been. 
GRIGOR 

What  of  that?     By  nightfall  we  will  be  there. 

STEPAN  (moving  his  huge  frame  lazily) 

And  then,  God  willing,  one  more  day,  and  we  return 
home! 


38  PAWNS 


GRIGOR 

God  willing! 
ILIA 

Is  it  a  large  city?    Will  there  be  many  people? 
STEFAN  (with  an  indulgent  smile) 

More  than  you  have  ever  seen  before. 
ILIA 

That  will  be  wonderful ! 

STEFAN 

There  are  streets;  more  streets  than  you  can  count, 
and  shops,  where  they  sell  beautiful  things,  and  great 
houses  all  built  of  stone. 

ILIA 

I  shall  love  to  see  that! 

GRIGOR 

Not  I!  (He  shakes  his  head)  I  am  afraid  of  the 
cities!  Oh,  I  am  afraid  of  the  cities!  (He  addresses 
Stepan)  Had  you  not  gone  to  the  city,  they  would 
have  left  us  alone. 

STEFAN 
No. 

GRIGOR 

They  have  always  left  us  alone.  Here  are  the 
marshes,  and  the  quicksands.  Who  knows  his  way 
through  them?  Not  the  city  people.  They  are  far 
too  comfortable  in  their  stone  houses. 

STEFAN 

Nevertheless  they  would  have  sent  for  us.     So  the 
police  said. 
GRIGOR 

The  police?  Since  when  do  we  talk  with  the  police? 
Have  I  not  said  that  when  an  honest  moujik  sees 


PAWNS  39 


a  policeman  on  one  side  of  the  street  he  crosses  to  the 
other? 

STEFAN 

It  was  no  use.  There  were  too  many  of  them. 
There  were  police  at  every  corner.  There  were 
signs  in  the  street,  and  crowds  reading  the  signs. 

GRIGOR 

Signs!  Ah,  yes!  Signs  telling  you  what  to  do! 
Signs  telling  you  what  not  to  do!  But  read?  How 
should  a  moujik  read?  How  to  plow  a  straight 
furrow  in  the  earth,  when  to  sow,  when  to  reap,  how 
to  feed  his  hen,  his  cow,  that  he  knows,  and  that 
is  far  better  than  reading  signs!  Pah!  Because 
you  could  not  read,  they  told  you  what  they  pleased ! 

STEFAN 

So  I  thought  at  first. 

GRIGOR 

Well? 

STEFAN 

Then  I  asked  others.    They  all  said  the  same. 

GRIGOR 

Hm!    We  must  go  to  Zawichost. 

STEFAN 

Yes;  to  Zawichost. 

GRIGOR 

And  lose  three  days  in  harvest  time. 

STEFAN 

So  they  said;   all  of  us. 

GRIGOR 

While  Michael  and  lame  Peter  work  in  their  field 
undisturbed,  on  the  other  side  of  the  marsh!  When 
we  return,  when  we  ask  them  to  help  us,  they  will 


40  PAWNS 


refuse;  we  have  not  helped  them.  (He  pauses  in 
disgust)  If  there  were  only  a  reason  it  would  be 
otherwise,  but  for  mobilization?  (With  crowning 
contempt)  What  is  mobilization? 

STEFAN 

When  I  asked  they  pointed  me  out  to  each  other; 
said  I  was  a  fine  hulk  of  a  man  to  be  asking  what  was 
mobilization.  They  laughed  at  me.  They  threw 
stones  at  me.  (He  is  getting  angry  at  the  recollection) 
Then  I  took  the  biggest  of  them  by  the  arm  —  so  — 
and  I  pressed  *  a  little,  so  that  his  face  went  white 
beneath  the  dirt,  and  the  sweat  stood  out  in  drops 
on  his  forehead,  and  he  begged  for  mercy,  and  the 
others,  they  stopped  laughing! 

ILIA  (who  is  listening  with  breathless  interest) 
And  then? 

STEFAN 

Then  I  came  away. 

^There  is  a  pause.     Then  the  younger  brother, 'who  has 

been  much  impressed,  takes  up  the  conversation. 

ILIA 

You  took  him  by  the  arm? 
STEFAN  (smiling) 

Yes,  little  brother. 
ILIA 

With  one  hand  only? 

STEFAN 

This  selfsame  hand.     (The  boy  feels  the  horny  palm 
with  interest)     Shall  I  show  you? 
ILIA  (darting  out  of  his  reach) 
No,  no!    I  do  not  doubt  you! 


PAWNS  41 


STEFAN  (laughing) 
For  that,  thanks! 

ILIA 

Still,  if  you  m  ust  show  me  — 
STEFAN  (with  the  growl  of  a  good-natured  bear) 
What? 

ILIA 

Wait  until  we  come  to  the  city  to-day. 
STEFAN 
And  then? 

ILIA 

Perhaps  they  will  laugh  at  us  — 
STEFAN  (with  understanding) 
Yes,  little  brother! 

ILIA 

Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  see  that! 
\iThere  is  a  pause. 
GRIGOR 

For  fifty  years  I  have  been  a  good  Christian.  I  know 
every  holiday  of  the  orthodox  church.  But  mobili 
zation?  That  I  have  never  heard  of. 

STEFAN 

Perhaps  the  Metropolitan  has  decreed  a  new  festival. 
GRIGOR 

In  harvest  time?     Pah! 

STEFAN 

Harvest  time  is  nothing  to  the  people  who  live  in 

cities.     They  know  nothing  of  harvests. 
ILIA  (suddenly) 

I  hear  steps. 
GRIGOR 

What? 


42  PAWNS 


ILIA 

Listen! 

[_They  listen.     There  is  no  sound. 

GRIGOB 

I  hear  nothing. 

STEFAN 

The  boy  has  quicker  ears  than  you  or  I.     Listen. 

l^Still  there  is  no  sound. 
STEFAN  (addressing  Ilia) 

What  do  you  hear? 
ILIA 

Two  men. 

STEFAN 

Which  way? 

ILIA 

From  there. 

[He  points  towards  the  right. 

GRIGOR 

But  who  should  come  that  way?    That  is  the  way 

we  have  come.     The  city  is  in  the  other  direction. 

£A  crackling  of  branches  becomes  audible. 
STEFAN 

Now  I  hear  them !    Hullo !    Hullo ! 
VOICES 

Hullo!    Hullo! 

ILIA 

Michael  and  lame  Peter.     I  know  their  voices. 
STEFAN 

Hullo!    This  way! 

GRIGOR 

They  will  not  know  where  we  are.     Guide  them. 
\_Stepan  starts  off. 


PAWNS  43 


ILIA 

Here!    A  burning  faggot! 
STEFAN 

Since  when  do  I  need  a  light,  little  brother? 

[He  disappears. 

GRIGOR 

Michael  and  lame  Peter?    Are  you  sure? 

ILIA  (listening) 

I  hear  them  speaking  .  .  .  Now  he  has  found  them  .  .  . 
They  are  coming  this  way. 

GRIGOR 

Why  should  they  follow  us? 

\_Stepan  reappears,  followed  by  two  more  peasants  who 
carry  packs,  Peter,  a  farmhand  of  twenty-two,  who 
walks  with  a  pronounced  limp,  and  Michael,  his 
employer,  a  robust  man  near  Grigor's  age. 

GRIGOR  (rising  ceremoniously) 
Christ  be  with  you! 

MICHAEL 

Grigor  Ignatievitch,  Christ  be  with  you! 
GRIGOR  (as  the  oilier s  drop  their  packs  and  draw  near  to 

the  fire) 

What  brings  you  to  the  swamp  at  this  time  of  night? 
MICHAEL 

We  asked  at  the  farm.     They  said  you  had  gone  this 

way. 
PETER 

We  too,  we  go  to  the  mobilization. 

GRIGOR 

You  also? 

ILIA 

You  go  to  Zawichost? 


44  PAWNS 


PETER 

No;  to  Sandomierz. 

GRIGOR 

Oh !    So  there  is  mobilization  in  more  than  one  place 

at  once? 
ILIA 

It  must  be  a  great  festival  indeed. 
PETER  (eagerly) 

A  festival,  is  it  then? 
GRIGOR 

Who  knows? 

MICHAEL 

But  that  is  why  we  followed  you.  We  do  not  know 
what  mobilization  may  be.  But  Anna  Petrovna 
said  you  had  gone  there.  We  thought  you  would 
know. 

GRIGOR  (shrugging  his  shoulders) 
Whatever  it  is,  we  will  know  to-day. 

PETER 
But  now,  you  cannot  tell  us? 

GRIGOR 

No.  (Pie  pauses)  Why  do  you  go  to  the  mobiliza 
tion  in  Sandomierz  while  we  go  to  that  in  Zawichost? 

MICHAEL 
A  soldier  said  we  were  to  go  to  Sandomierz. 

STEPAN 

A  soldier  here?     In  these  swamps? 

MICHAEL 

All  the  way  to  the  farm  he  came.     We  must  go,  he 
said.    We  were  afraid  to  disobey. 
GRIGOR 

He  did  not  tell  you  why  you  must  go? 


PAWNS  45 


MICHAEL 

He  had  no  time.     He  had  to  tell  many  others. 

STEFAN 

And  you  asked  him  nothing? 
MICHAEL 

We  asked.     He  swore,  and  said  that  if  we  were  not 

gone  when  he  passed  again  on  his  way  back,  we  should 

be  beaten. 

[There  is  a  pause. 
ILIA 

And  lame  Peter,  must  he  go  too? 
MICHAEL 

I  and  all  my  men,  he  said.     I  have  only  the  one. 
ILIA 

But  he  is  lame. 
PETER  (good-naturedly) 

Lame  Peter  will  travel  as  far  and  as  fast  as  any  of 

them!     And  if  there  is  to  be  a  festival,  why  should 

not  lame  Peter  be  there  with  the  others? 

GRIGOR 

But  the  harvest? 

MICHAEL 

Yes,  the  harvest! 

STEFAN 

Wlien  we  return  we  will  reap  our  fields  together, 
and  then  lame  Peter  will  have  a  chance  to  show 
what  a  worker  he  is! 
ILIA  (abruptly) 
A  sound ! 
[_They  stop  talking. 

STEFAN 

What  is  it? 


46  PAWNS 


ILIA  (listening) 

A  horse. 
STEFAN  (incredulously) 

Ahorse?    This  time  you  are  wrong ! 
GRIGOR 

What  fool  would  try  to  ride  a  horse  through  the 

swamp? 

ILIA 

Now  I  hear  it  more  plainly. 
PETER 

Perhaps  it  is  a  riderless  horse. 
ILIA 

No.     A  rider  is  using  the  whip. 

[He  is  looking  of  left. 
GRIGOR  (following  his  glance) 

A  rider  from  the  city? 

[The  peasants  look  at  each  other.     The  crackling  of 

branches  becomes  audible.     Stepan  rises  silently,  and 

goes  out  at  the  left. 

MICHAEL 

As  if  there  were  no  better  use  for  a  good  animal 
than  that!     To  ride  through  the  swamp,  where  the 
ground  is  hardly  firm  enough  to  carry  a  man ! 
PETER 

And  quicksands,  quicksands  to  right  and  left  of  him ! 

The  horse  knows  better  than  his  master. 

[There  is  the  sound  of  a  drunken  voice  raised  in  anger. 

ILIA 

Listen  to  him! 
PETER 

Swearing  at  his  horse,  as  if  the  poor  beast  could  do 
any  more! 


PAWNS  47 


ILIA 

He's  afraid!  I  know  he's  afraid !  He  feels  the  earth 
crumbling  under  his  hoofs!  How  he  must  tremble! 
[The  sound  of  a  whip  being  used  unmercifully. 

ILIA 

Now   he's   beating   him!     I   hope   he   throws   him! 
Oh,  I  hope  he  throws  him! 
[There  is  a  loud  crash. 
GRIGOR 

He  has  thrown  him! 

ILIA 

I  knew  he  would ! 
PETER 

It  serves  him  right !     To  treat  a  good  horse  like  that ! 
ILIA 

And  into  the  mud!    The  rider  from  the  city  in  the 

mud!     I  should  love  to  see  that! 

[There  is  the  report  of  a  revolver.     The  peasants  rise; 

look  at  each  other  in  terrified  inquiry. 

GRIGOR 

What  was  that? 

MICHAEL 

A  shot! 

ILIA 

And  Stepan! 

PETER 

Perhaps  Stepan  said  something! 

ILIA 

Something  the  rider  didn't  like ! 
MICHAEL 

He  was  always  quick  tempered,  your  Stepan.     He 


48  PAWNS 


was  not  the  man  to  stand  there  and  see  the  horse 

beaten  for  no  fault  of  its  own. 
GRIGOR  (in  horror) 

Christ! 

\_Stepan  reenters. 
ILIA  (with  a  shout  of  relief) 

Here  he  comes! 
GRIGOR 

Stepan ! 

MICHAEL 

What  happened? 
STEPAN  (briefly) 

His  horse  fell.    It  wouldn't  rise  again.    He  shot  it. 
ILIA 

Oh! 

PETER 

Shot  his  horse! 

\\At  the  left  there  enters  a  Russian  sergeant,  booted, 
spurred,  carrying  a  whip.  He  is  very  muddy  and  very 
drunk. 

PETER  (repeats  in  horror) 
He  shot  his  horse! 

THE    SERGEANT 

Well,  what  of  it?    It  was  my  horse,  wasn't  it?    I 
could  do  what  I  wanted  with  it. 
MICHAEL  (more  mildly) 

It  must  have  been  worth  many  roubles. 

THE   SERGEANT 

The  rich  government  will  pay  for  it.  (He  stumbles 
nearer  the  fire)  Give  me  something  to  drink. 

MICHAEL 

What  would  we  be  doing  with  drink? 


PAWNS  49 


GRIGOR 

We  are  only  honest  moujiks. 

THE    SERGEANT 

You  have  nothing?    Well,  then  — 

[He  pulls  a  flask  from  a  pocket,  and  applies  it  to  his  lips. 

STEFAN  (to  Grigor,  as  the  sergeant  drinks) 
He  has  had  too  much  to  drink  already. 

GRIGOR  (shrugging  his  shoulders) 
A  Christian  is  a  Christian. 

THE  SERGEANT  (wiping  his  lips  on  his  sleeve,  and  replac 
ing  his  bottle  without  offering  it  elsewhere) 
Ah !   That  puts  the  heart  in  you !    Make  place  for  me 
at  your  fire,  you !    (He  elbows  his  way  to  a  seat.     The 
peasants  edge  away,  so  that  he  is  alone  at  one  side,  and 
they  together  at  the  other)     There!    That's  something 
like. 
[There  is  a  pause. 

GRIGOR  (courteously) 
May  I  ask  your  name? 

THE  SERGEANT  (warming  his  hands  at  the  fire) 
What? 

GRIGOR 

Your  name  and  surnames? 

THE    SERGEANT 

Alexei  Ivanovitch  Liboff,  Sergeant. 
GRIGOR  (inclining  his  head) 

I  am  Grigor  Ignatievitch  Arshin.  This  is  my  son 
Stepan.  This  is  my  son  Ilia.  This  is  my  good 
neighbor  — 

THE  SERGEANT  (interrupts  rudely  with  a  drinking  song) 
It  isn't  sleep  that  bows  my  head, 
But  the  drink,  the  drink  that's  in  it! 


50  PAWNS 

GRIGOB  (in  amazement) 

What? 
STEFAN  (starting  to  rise  angrily) 

The  boor! 
GRIGOR  (laying  a  hand  on  his  arm) 

A  Christian  is  a  Christian. 

THE   SERGEANT 

I'll  up  and  away  to  a  distant  glade ! 
Where  the  wild  red  raspberries  grow, 
And  I'll  meet  a  little  Cossack  girl, 
A  little  Cossack  girl  from  the  Don ! 

(He    stops    suddenly)     Well,    why    don't    you    say 

something? 
GRIGOR 

It  is  not  for  us  to  speak  in  the  presence  of  your 

excellency. 

THE   SERGEANT 

Then  my  excellency  graciously  grants  you  permission. 

(He  rises,  bows  grotesquely,  stumbles,  falls) 
I'll  meet  a  little  Cossack  girl, 
A  little  Cossack  girl  from  the  Don! 

(He    stops;     points    at    Ilia)     You,    speak!     (Ilia 

remains  silent.     He  points  at  Stepan)     You !     (Stepan 

folds  his  arms  and  glares.     He  points  at  Grigor)     You, 

old  man!     Are  you  all  a  pack  of  fools? 
GRIGOR 

Your  excellency  has  traveled  far? 

THE   SERGEANT 

My  excellency  has  traveled  far.  Through  these 
cursed  swamps  on  a  stumbling  horse  all  the  way 
from  Zawichost. 


PAWNS  51 


STEFAN  (involuntarily) 
From  Zawichost? 

THE   SERGEANT 

Have  I  not  said  so?     All  the  way  from  Zawichost, 
since  eleven  o'clock  this  morning. 

STEFAN  (starting  to  put  the  question  which  is  uppermost 
in  all  their  minds) 
Perhaps,  then  — 
[He  breaks  off. 

THE   SERGEANT 

Perhaps  what? 

GRIGOR 

Perhaps  your  excellency  can  tell  us  something  of  the 
mobilization? 
THE  SERGEANT  (yawning) 
The  mobilization,  oh,  yes. 

ILIA 

It  is  a  festival,  is  it  not? 

THE  SERGEANT  (shutting   his   mouth   with   a   surprised 
snap) 
What? 

GRIGOR 

A  festival  of  the  holy  church? 

THE   SERGEANT 

Who  told  you  that?     (He  laughs  loudly)     A  festival 
of  the  church! 
MICHAEL  (somewhat  nettled) 

WTiat,  then,  is  the  mobilization? 

THE    SERGEANT 

You  don't  know? 

PETER 

How  should  we?     We  live  far  from  the  cities. 


52  PAWNS 


THE   SERGEANT 

Then  why  do  you  go  there? 

MICHAEL 

We  do  as  we  are  told. 
THE  SERGEANT  (very  drunkenly) 

Quite  right!    Do  as  you  are  told!    Obey  orders! 

That's  the  way  for  a  moujik! 
GRIGOR 

But  what  is  mobilization? 
THE  SERGEANT  (turning  on  him) 

Mobilization  is  this:   they  stand  you  up  in  rows,  the 

big  men  in  back,  and  the  little  men  in  front.     Then 

they  put  guns  in  your  hands,  and  you  shoot. 
ILIA 

I  should  love  to  shoot. 

MICHAEL 

But  we  don't  know  how. 

THE   SERGEANT 

That  doesn't  matter.     They  teach  you. 

STEFAN 

We  shoot.  Very  well,  what  then?  When  we  have 
shot  do  we  go  home? 

THE    SERGEANT 

Oh,  no!  It  only  begins  so.  When  you  have  shot, 
you  march.  Then  they  stand  you  up  in  rows  again, 
and  you  shoot  some  more. 

MICHAEL 

What  do  you  shoot  at? 
ILIA 

Targets? 

THE    SERGEANT 

Better  than  that! 


PAWNS  53 


PETER 

Animals? 

THE   SERGEANT 

Still  better  than  that!     (He  pauses  for  his  effect) 
How  would  you  like  to  shoot  at  men? 

ILIA 

Shoot  at  men? 
MICHAEL 

"What  have  they  done  that  they  should  be  shot  at? 
GRIGOR 

What  have  we  done  that  we  should  shoot  at  them? 
THE  SERGEANT  (amused) 

You  don't  believe  me? 

[He  laughs;  produces  his  bottle,  drinks  again. 
STEFAN  (to  Grigor) 

He  is  very  drunk.     He  doesn't  know  what  he  is 

saying. 
PETER  (icith  a  sudden  laugh) 

I  have  found  it ! 

THE   SERGEANT 

What  have  you  found? 

PETER 

I  have  found  the  trick!     You  shoot  at  men,  yes, 

but  not  with  real  bullets ! 
THE  SERGEANT  (laughi?ig,  as  the  others  laugh,  but  for 

a  different  reason) 

Not  with  real  bullets?    Wait  a  minute.     (He  fumbles 

in  his  bandolier)     Here's  one  of  them! 

[He  tosses  them  a  loaded  cartridge. 
MICHAEL  (while  they  all  examine  it  with  curiosity) 

What  is  it? 


54  PAWNS 


THE    SERGEANT 

Give  it  to  me.     (He  demonstrates)     This  is  full  of 
powder.     The  hammer  strikes  here,  and  the  powder 
explodes.     And  this  —  this  —  (he  bites  it  out)  —  is 
the  bullet. 
[He  passes  it  to  them. 

ILIA 

What  a  cruel  thing! 
PETER 
How  heavy  it  is! 

GRIGOR 

And  is  this  what  we  shoot  at  men? 

THE    SERGEANT 

Bullets  like  this  —  and  bigger. 
GRIGOR 

But  if  we  hit  them? 

THE    SERGEANT 

What? 

GRIGOR  (repeating  his  question) 
If  we  hit  them? 

THE    SERGEANT 

You  want  to  hit  them. 

GRIGOR 

And  hurt  them? 

THE   SERGEANT 

You  want  to  hurt  them. 

GRIGOR 

Or  even  —  kill  them? 
THE  SERGEANT  (reaching  his  climax) 
You  want  to  kill  them! 
\[The    peasants    look    at    one    another    blankly.     The 


PAWNS  55 


sergeant  i-s  immensely  pleased  with  the  impression  he 

has  produced. 

STEFAN 

We  are  peaceable  moujiks. 

MICHAEL 

W7e  want  to  kill  nobody. 

PETER 

They  must  have  sent  for  the  wrong  men.     They 
could  not  have  wanted  us. 
GRIGOR  (voicing  the  general  opinion) 

We,  we  want  to  kill  no  man.  For  fifty  years  I  have 
been  a  good  Christian.  I  have  killed  nothing  except 
that  which  I  was  to  eat;  I  and  my  children.  We 
do  not  eat  men;  we  do  not  kill  men. 

THE    SERGEANT 

AU  right,  then.     You  will  learn  how. 

GRIGOR 

I  do  not  wish  to  learn  how. 

THE   SERGEANT 

So  they  say  in  the  beginning.  So  was  I  in  the  begin 
ning.  The  first  time  you  pull  your  trigger,  the  first 
tune  you  see  a  strong  man  fall,  you  are  afraid,  oh, 
you  are  afraid!  But  then  the  lust  of  killing  sweeps 
over  you,  and  you  shoot,  and  shoot,  while  the  metal 
of  your  gun  burns  the  flesh  of  your  hands,  and  you 
scream  with  joy,  and  are  glad,  and  you  kill!  You 
kill! 

GRIGOR 

Far  rather  would  I  be  killed  myself! 

THE   SERGEANT 

That  may  happen  also! 
[He  drinks. 


56  PAWNS 


STEFAN  (to  Grigor) 
He  lies. 

MICHAEL 

He  is  a  soldier.     Soldiers  always  lie. 
ILIA 

And  he  is  drunk!    Pah! 
GRIGOR  (to  the  sergeant,  as  he  corks  his  bottle) 

These  men,  whom  we  shoot  at  — 

\_He  stops. 

THE   SERGEANT 

Yes? 

GRIGOR 

They  have  stolen?    They  have  murdered? 
\_The  sergeant  laughs. 
GRIGOR  (patiently) 

They  must  be  great  criminals.    What  crime  have 
they  done? 

THE   SERGEANT 

No  crime. 

GRIGOR 

Then  why  do  they  let  us  shoot  at  them? 

THE   SERGEANT 

They  do  not  let  you. 

GRIGOR 

No? 

THE   SERGEANT 

You  shoot.  4 

GRIGOR 

And  what  do  they  do? 

THE   SERGEANT 

They  shoot  also. 


PAWNS  57 


GRIGOR 

At  US? 
THE   SERGEANT 

Where  else,  then?    They  are  the  enemy. 
GRIGOR 

But  we,  we  have  no  enemy. 

THE   SERGEANT 

You  will  learn  otherwise.     These  men,  these  men 

whom  you  shoot  at  and  who  shoot  at  you,  they  are 

your  enemy. 

\JThere  is  a  pause.     The  peasants  exchange  signs  of 

incredulity. 
ILIA  (reflectively) 

To  shoot,  that  is  not  so  bad.     But  to  be  shot  at,  that 

I  should  not  like  at  all! 
GRIGOR  (silencing  him) 

And  who  are  these  men? 
PETER  (sarcastically) 

Yes,  our  enemies,  who  are  they? 
THE  SERGEANT  (waving  his  hand) 

Prussians.     Germans.     Austrians. 

GRIGOR 

And  what  are  Prussians?  —  Germans?  — Austrians? 

THE    SERGEANT 

Men  who  live  on  the  other  side  of  the  border.  Men 
who  live  on  the  other  side  of  the  swamps. 

GRIGOR 

On  the  other  side  of  the  swamps?  (He  glances 
meaningly  at  Michael  and  Peter)  What  do  you 
mean? 

THE  SERGEANT  (growing  drunkenly  expansive) 

Well,  you  see,  here  is  Russia,  (a  gesture  to  the  left) 


58  PAWNS 


here  are  the  swamps,  (a  gesture  in  front}  that  is,  the 
border,  and  there  is  Austria.  (A  gesture  to  the  right) 
Here  we  are.  There  is  the  enemy. 
\_Rather  unaccountably  the  peasants  begin  to  laugh,  a 
hearty  laugh  of  relief,  as  if  the  sergeant  has  finally 
exposed  the  falsehood  of  everything  that  he  has  said  by 
venturing  upon  a  glaringly  untrue  statement. 

THE  SERGEANT  (irritated) 

Well,  what  are  you  laughing  at? 

MICHAEL 

A  good  joke! 

PETER 

Yes,  a  fine  joke! 

MICHAEL 

A  liar!     Such  a  liar  as  there  never  was! 

STEFAN 

When  a  man  has  had  too  much  to  drink  he  should 
stay  home! 
GRIGOR  (relaxing  his  dignity) 

And  for  a  time  we  believed  him!     We  believed  him! 

THE    SERGEANT 

What? 

STEFAN 

Instead  of  telling  lies  to  honest  moujiks  — 
THE  SERGEANT  (interrupting) 

What  do  you  mean? 
PETER 

We  (indicating  Michael),  we  live  on  the  other  side  of 

the  swamps! 

THE    SERGEANT 

Well,  what  of  it? 


PAWNS  59 


MICHAEL 

We  are  going  to  the  mobilization  also! 
THE  SERGEANT  (with  superiority) 

Here  is  the  border  line.     But  the  line  bends. 
PETER 

You  said  they  shot  at  us!     Because  we  lived  on  the 

other  side  of  the  swamps!     Old  Grigor,  and  Stepan, 

and  Ilia!     They  shoot  at  us! 
STEFAN  (laughing) 

Rather  would  we  shoot  at  you,  Alexei  Ivanovitch! 
THE  SERGEANT  (growing  angry) 

Laugh,  if  you  like !     Laugh,  but  to-morrow,  when  you 

reach  Zawichost,   when  you  find  that   I   am  your 

superior  officer,  then  I  laugh! 
PETER 

To  Zawichost?     But  we  do  not  go  there! 

MICHAEL 

We  go  to  Sandomierz! 
THE  SERGEANT  (thunder  struck) 

To  Sandomierz! 
PETER  (snapping  his  fingers  at  him) 

Where  you  are  not  my  superior  officer! 
THE  SERGEANT  (irith  sudden  awakening) 

No,  that  I  am  not !     But  you,  you  are  the  enemy ! 

PETER 

What? 

ILIA 

Did  you  hear  what  he  said? 
STEPAN  (laughing  scornfully) 
The  enemy? 

MICHAEL 

When  we  have  tilled  our  fields  together? 


60  PAWNS 


THE  SERGEANT  (balancing  himself  with  difficulty) 

Sandomierz,  that  is  in  Austria! 
GRIGOR  (disregarding  him) 

Enemies!     When  we  live  a  single  verst  apart  from 

each  other! 
MICHAEL 

When  we  have  helped  each  other  with  the  harvest, 

aye,  since  we  were  children! 

THE    SERGEANT    (shouting) 

We  are  Russians!  You  are  Austrians!  There  is 
war  between  us!  (He  draws  his  revolver)  I  com 
mand  you  to  surrender. 

PETER  (mimicking  him,  dancing  up  and  down  in  front 
of  him) 
I  command  you  to  surrender! 

THE   SERGEANT 

Surrender ! 

PETER 

Listen  to  the  drunken  fool!     Surrender! 

\_The  Sergeant  shoots.     Peter  falls.     There  is  a  sudden 

and  dreadful  pause. 
STEFAN  (laying  his  hand  over  Peter's  heart) 

Dead!     Dead  as  his  horse! 
GRIGOR  (rising  to  his  feet  like  a  prophet  of  old) 

Are  we  men  or  are  we  beasts  of  the  field? 
THE  SERGEANT  (turning  triumphantly  on  Michael) 

Now,  you  Austrian  swine,  will  you  surrender? 

l^But  Stepan  is  already  advancing  upon  him,  breathing 

deep,   slowly,  massively,   like  some  awful  engine  of 

destruction.     At  first  the  Sergeant  does  not  see  him, 

but  something  in  the  expression  of  the  others  warns  him. 

He  wheels. 


PAWNS  61 


THE    SERGEANT 

Back !     Stop  where  you  are ! 

[Stepan  continues  grimly,  his  great  hands  rising  slowly 

from  his  sides. 
THE  SERGEANT  (in  an  ecstasy  of  fear) 

Back,  I  say ! 

[He  fires. 

Stepan  shakes  himself,  a$  if  stung  by  a  hornet,  and 

throws  his  towering  bulk  upon  the  sergeant.     There  is 

a  sigh  of  satisfaction  from   the  moujik  as  his  fingers 

lock  about  his  adversary's  throat.    And  there  is  a  scream 

from  the  Sergeant,  a  scream  ending  in  a  choke  .... 

The  struggling  figures  fall  outside  of  the  circle  of  light. 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  threshing,  as  when  some  small 

animal  is  caught  in  a  trap.     Then  quiet. 
GRIGOR  (almost  sobbing) 

And  not  so  long  ago  I  thought  it  was  easier  to  be 

killed  than  to  kill! 
MICHAEL  (with  staring  eyes) 

Murder!     That  I  have  lived  to  see  a  murder! 

ILIA 

Lame  Peter !     Poor  lame  Peter ! 

\_There  is  a  pause.     Then  Stepan  rises,  holding  the 

Sergeant's  revolver  between  two  fingers. 
STEPAN 

What  shall  I  do  with  this? 
GRIGOR  (raising  his  head) 

What? 

[Stepan  hands  him  the  revolver. 
GRIGOR 

Pah! 

[He  flings  it  away.     A  pause. 


PAWNS 


ILIA  (in  a  trembling  voice) 

I  so  wanted  to  see  you  use  your  strength,  and  now 

that  I  have  seen  it  —  how  horrible  it  is,  how  horrible! 

\_Stepan  does  not  reply.     Instead,  he  turns  to  Grigor. 
STEFAN 

The  bodies? 

GRIGOR 

The  swamp  will  swallow  them  up. 

\_Stepan  beckons  to  Ilia.     Silently  they  raise  Peter's 

body,  carry  it  out  at  the  back.     They  return. 
GRIGOR  (rises,   bows   his   head,  folds   his  hands.     The 

others  follow  his  example} 

May  we  all  be  happy.     May  the  dead  reach  God's 

kingdom.     May  we  all  be  preserved  in  good  health. 

Amen. 

£The  others  repeat  the  Amen.    He  makes  the  sign  of 

the  cross.     The  others  follow  his  example.     A   little 

light  begins  to  filter  through  the  trees. 
GRIGOR  (turning  to  Michael) 

And  now,  you  on  your  way,  we  on  ours. 

MICHAEL 

Farewell,  brother. 
GRIGOR 

Brother,  farewell! 

^Michael  takes  up  two  packs,  his  own,  and  Peter's; 

goes  out  at  the  back. 

Grigor,  Stepan,  Ilia,  take  up  their  own  packs,  go  out 

at  the  left. 

THE   CURTAIN  FALLS 


IN  THE  RAVINE 

Opus  1ft 


IN  THE  RAVINE 

A  snowy  ravine  in  the  Italian  Alps.  Everything  is 
white.  Even  in  the  background,  and  at  the  sides,  the 
sky  is  shut  out  by  the  perpendicular  cliff  sides.  And 
every  few  seconds,  a  gust  of  wind,  scooping  through  the 
length  of  the  little  hollow,  fills  the  air  with  whirling  clouds 
of  snow. 

From  above,  sounds  of  fighting:  the  discharge  of  small 
arms;  the  rattle  of  machine  guns;  and,  at  intervals,  the 
deeper  reports  of  mountain  artillery.  Mixed  in  with  it 
all,  shouts,  screams,  human  voices  .  .  . 

The  sounds  of  the  im^isible  combat  in  the  sky  grow  in 
volume,  and  suddenly,  from  above,  a  large  rectangular 
object,  indistinguishable  for  the  snow  which  covers  it, 
bounds  down  the  slope  facing  ILS,  to  fall  noiselessly  into 
the  deeper  snow  at  its  base. 

The  firing  grows  louder;  then  diminishes.  It  appears 
that  one  side  has  scored  a  victory;  that  it  is  driving  its 
opponent  off  in  confusion.  The  noise  dies  out  in  the 
distance. 

Presently  we  observe  that  the  fallen  object  is  alive; 
it  moves,  separates  into  two  parts,  two  soldiers,  an  Austrian 
and  an  Italian,  both  somewhat  stunned  by  their  fall. 

The  Austrian  is  the  first  to  rise  to  his  feet.  He  looks 
at  the  wall  of  white  which  hems  him  in,  then  at  the  prostrate 
Italian  at  his  feet,  takes  in  the  situation,  and  laughs  — 
laughs  Homerically.  But  in  the  middle  of  his  laugh  he 
stops  suddenly:  attempts  to  move  his  left  arm:  utters  an 

65 


66  IN  THE  RAVINE 

ejaculation    of   pain:     investigates    with    the    uninjured 

member,  cursing  softly  as  he  does  so. 

THE  ITALIAN  (an  urbane  little  man  of  obvious  refinement, 

sitting  up,  and  watching  with  more  than  lay  interest) 

Broken? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  don't  know.     It  hurts  like  the  devil. 
THE  ITALIAN  (rising) 
Let  me  see  it. 

\Me  approaches. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  can't  move  it.    (With  sudden  suspicion,  as  the  Italian 
nears)     No,  you  don't! 
THE  ITALIAN  (smiling) 
Oh,  I  shan't  hurt  you ! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Your  word?     (He  breaks  off,  with  renewed  suspicion) 
That's  what  I  thought  up  there. 
\_H e  attempts  to  gesticulate  with  the  injured  arm  — 
stops  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath. 

THE   ITALIAN 

I  don't  understand. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (rubbing  his  shoulder  tenderly) 
When  it  came  to  the  hand-to-hand  struggle  — 

THE   ITALIAN 

Yes? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  took  one  look  at  you.     I  thought  I  should  break 
you  in  two. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Indeed? 


IN  THE  RAVINE  67 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

You're  such  a  little  fellow.     Why,  I  could  make  two 
of  you !    Then  you  did  something  to  me  —  Phew ! 
THE  ITALIAN  (explaining  politely) 
Pressed  on  the  brachial  plexus. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

The  what?     How? 
THE  ITALIAN  (with  professorial  pleasure) 

The    brachial    plexus.     Where    the    brachial    nerve 

passes  through  the  axilla,  and  forms  a  plexus  near 

the  neck  of  the  humerus. 
THE  AUSTRL^N  (not  understanding  in  the  least) 

Yes,  I  suppose  that  was  it. 

THE   ITALIAN 

You  don't  follow?    Let  me  show  you. 

[He  approaches  again. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (backing  away  hastily) 

No,  no!  The  recollection  is  sufficiently  vivid. 
(Looking  at  him  fearfully)  You've  done  it  before? 

THE  ITALIAN  (expansively) 

Oh,  often !  On  a  guinea  pig  it  will  produce  complete 
insensibility  in  a  minute.  (Parenthetic ally)  That  is, 
with  simultaneous  compression  of  the  vagus.  On  a 
large  dog,  two  minutes  and  a  quarter.  On  an  ox, 
four  minutes.  Surprising,  isn't  it? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Hm!    And  what  did  you  take  me  for?    A  dog  or  an 
ox? 
THE  ITALIAN  {with  a  simple  smile) 

You?  Neither.  An  enemy.  (Wistfully)  I  had 
always  wanted  to  try  it  on  a  man,  but  I  had  never 
done  it.  It's  too  painful. 


68 IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

So  I  observe. 

\_A  pause.     They  smile.     Then,  realizing  the  humor 

of  the  situation,  they  laugh  openly. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Now,  will  you  let  me  look  at  your  arm? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

If  you  will  be  so  good. 

\_The  Italian  takes  his  left  hand  and  rotates  the  arm. 

The  Austrian  exclaims. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Hurt?     ( The  Austrian  nods)     Much?     (Another  nod) 
It's  not  broken. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Not  broken?    Why,  it's  broken  in  a  hundred  places. 
THE  ITALIAN  (touching  his  armpit) 
The  pain  is  worst  here,  isn't  it? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Ouch!    Yes. 

THE  ITALIAN  (dropping  the  arm) 
You  have  me  to  thank  for  that. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  don't  follow. 
THE  ITALIAN  (lightly) 

After  effect.     (He  waves  his  hand)     That's  all. 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (with  vast  expressiveness) 

Oh!     Only  that? 

THE   ITALIAN 

It'll  wear  off  by  and  by.     Try  and  be  patient.     (He 
opens  a  cigarette  case)     Smoke? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

No,  thanks.     (Watching  the  Italian  with  undisguised 


IN  THE  RAVINE  69 

interest)  Would  you  mind  telling  me  —  where  you 
learned  that? 

THE  ITALIAN  (lighting  his  cigarette) 
What? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

That  —  that  —  that  little  accomplishment  of  yours  — 
[He  indicates  his  arm. 

THE   ITALIAN 

That?     Oh,  that's  part  of  my  business. 

THE   AUSTRL\N 

Your  business?     What  are  you?    A  wrestler? 
THE  ITALIAN  (laughing  lightly) 
A  wrestler?    Hardly  that! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

A  pugilist? 

THE   ITALIAN 

Ha!  Is  this  the  hand  of  the  man  who  makes  his 
living  by  his  fists?  Is  this  the  forehead  of  the  prize 
fighter? 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Then  a  torturer  of  the  Inquisition? 

THE  ITALIAN  (shaking  his  head) 

Thanks  for  the  compliment  —  but  I  am  strictly 
modern.  (Simply)  I  am  a  professor  in  the  Uni 
versity  of  Padua. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (incredulously) 
A  professor? 

THE   ITALIAN 

Yes.     Of  biology. 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Then  why  aren't  you  in  the  medical  corps? 


70  IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   ITALIAN 

I  am  not  a  physician  —  and  I  wanted  to  see  action. 

It's  the  truth.     (As  the  Austrian  stares  at  him,  he 

announces  his  name  with  a  little  bow)     I  am  Carlo 

Verani. 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (repeating  the  name  as  if  hypnotized) 

Carlo  Verani? 
THE  ITALIAN  (obviously  pleased)    I  take  it  you  have 

heard  of  me? 

THE  AUSTRIAN    (flatly) 

No;  I  can't  say  I  have. 
THE  ITALIAN  (anxiously) 

My  monograph  on  the  phylogenetic  development  of 
fresh  water  crustaceans? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Crustaceans? 

THE   ITALIAN 

You  must  have  heard  of  it.    And  my  magnum  opus 
on  parthenogenesis  in  the  sea  urchin? 
^The  Austrian  shakes  his  head  firmly. 
THE  ITALIAN  (despairingly) 

You  don't  know  it?     Why,  every  year  for  the  past 
twenty  I  have  had  something  new  to  give  the  world. 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Your  work,  professor,  has  nothing  to  do  with  my 
business. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh.     (Perfunctorily)     What  is  your  business? 
£The  Austrian  bursts  into  laughter. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Is  it  as  funny  as  that? 


IX  THE   RAVINE  71 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

Permit  me  to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Fritz  Schon- 
bninn. 

THE  ITALIAN  (trying  to  recall) 
Fritz  Schonbrunn? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

You  have  heard  the  name? 

THE    ITALIAN 

It  has  a  familiar  sound.  And  you  say  it  as  if  I  should 
have  heard  it. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  am  a  man  at  the  top  of  my  profession ! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Indeed?     I  congratulate  you.     And  that  profession? 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (smiling  and  pausing) 

A  minute  ago  you  asked  me  to  look  at  your  hand. 
Now  look  at  mine. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Well? 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

Those  finely  modeled  outlines;  those  flexible,  supple 
muscles;  those  long,  sensitive  fingers;  do  they  say 
nothing  to  you? 

THE   ITALIAN 

An  artist,  of  course. 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

Of  course.     But  what  kind  of  an  artist? 
THE  ITALIAN  (examining  the  hand) 

Violinist?  (The  Austrian  shakes  his  head)  Pianist? 
(Another  shake  of  the  head}  Not  a  musician? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Except  in  so  far  as  every  Austrian  is  a  musician. 


72 IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   ITALIAN 

Sculptor? 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

No.  ./ 

THE  ITALIAN 

Painter? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

That's  better! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Not  a  painter,  but  allied  with  painting? 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Yes. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Then  an  etcher! 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Nearly  right!    Very  nearly  right! 
THE  ITALIAN  (amused) 

Well,  then? 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (with  simple  pride) 

I  am  a  forger ! 
THE  ITALIAN  (somewhat  upset) 

I  —  I  beg  your  pardon. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

A  forger.  Not  the  man  who  works  in  the  sweat  of 
his  brow,  if  you  please,  but  the  man  who  produces 
more  valuable  articles:  checks,  notes,  promises  to 
pay,  letters  of  credit,  bills  of  exchange,  all  that  sort 
of  thing. 

THE   ITALIAN 

O  —  Oh !    How  interesting ! 


IN  THE  RAVINE  73 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (with  a  deliberate  copy  of  the  professor's 
manner)  You  must  have  heard  of  the  celebrated 
million  kronen  forgery? 

THE  ITALIAN  (unconvincingl 'y) 
Of  course ! 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

Why,  the  Baron  went  on  the  stand  and  swore  that 
it  was  his  signature  on  the  note:  that  he  didn't 
remember  signing  it,  but  that  there  was  no  doubt 
about  the  signature!  I  did  that!  And  then  the 
check  I  raised  from  eight  to  eighty  thousand,  and 
when  the  cashier  was  suspicious,  forged  an  indorse 
ment,  and  got  the  money!  And  the  jewels  of  the 
Countess  Potocka,  which  the  jeweler  delivered  to 
me  on  her  written  order  —  which  she  has  not  yet 
been  able  to  prove  was  a  forgery ! 
THE  ITALIAN  (for  the  sake  of  saying  something) 
You  seem  to  have  had  a  busy  life. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Busy?     Overcrowded !     Always    something   new  to 
give  to  the  world  —  just  like  yourself. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Yes;  I  was  about  to  remark  it. 

THE   AUSTRL4.N 

Both  of  us  professional  men,  eh?    Both  of  us  followers 
of  the  liberal  arts? 

THE  ITALIAN  (regaining  something  of  his  equilibrium) 

At  different  distances! 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (nodding  and  smiling) , 

But  followers,  nevertheless! 

[He  blows  a  kiss  into  the  air. 


74  IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE  ITALIAN  (chuckling) 
Why  the  kiss? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

That?     (Blowing  another)     For  the  Muse! 
^Shots  are  heard  in  the  distance. 
THE  ITALIAN  (gesticulating) 
They're  still  fighting. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Yes  .  .  .  (Coming  back  to  earth  suddenly)    I  regret 
to  change  the  subject  — 

THE  ITALIAN  (nodding  shrewdly) 
You  were  talking  about  yourself. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (smiling) 

Even  in  that  case.     (He  takes  a  step  forward)     Pro 
fessor,  you  are  my  prisoner! 

THE  ITALIAN  (undismayed) 
Your  prisoner? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Just  that. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh!    Then  your  arm  must  be  all  right  again! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Quite  recovered,  thank  you.     (He  points)     I  cap 
tured  you  up  there. 

THE  ITALIAN 

Hm!    And  brought  me  down  here  for  safe-keeping? 
Yes? 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (grinning) 
Well  — 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh,  I  recall  distinctly  that  you  said  something  about 
my  surrendering  —  or  words  to  that  effect. 


IN  THE  RAVINE  75 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

You  admit  it! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Of  course !    But  I  don't  remember  that  I  surrendered. 
Instead,   (he  indicates  his  armpit  with  an  eloquent 
gesture)     I  made  use  of  my  anatomical  knowledge, 
and  the  next  thing  I  knew  — 
[JHe  breaks  off. 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Yes? 

THE  ITALIAN  (continuing  his  sentence) 

I  was  laboring  under  the  delusion  that  you  were  my 

prisoner ! 

[He  advances  stealthily  upon  the  Austrian. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (obsening  his  approach;  suddenly  draw 
ing  a  sword  bayonet) 
Stand  off! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh!     (He  follows  his  example  leisurely)    You  see, 
I  have  one  also. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Your  tricks  won't  help  you  now! 

THE  ITALIAN 

No? 

THE   AUSTRL\N 

In  bayonet  fighting  it's  a  matter  of  skill  with  a 

point! 
THE  ITALIAN  (smiling  sioeetly) 

Oh !    You  imagine  it's  a  pen ! 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (laughing,  despite  himself) 

What  of  that? 


76  IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   ITALIAN 

Don't   forget!     I   am   an  expert  with   the   lancet! 
(He  describes  geometrical  designs  with  the  point  of  his 
bayonet) 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (watching  him  critically) 

Your   hand   isn't   steady.    You   smoke   too   many 
cigarettes.     /  never  smoke. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Hm!     You  need  a  steady  hand,  don't  you? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

What? 

THE   ITALIAN 

In  your  profession? 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (smiling) 

When  a  mistake  means  jail?    Emphatically!     (He 

swings  his  arms  vigorously  to  restore  the  circulation) 

Are  you  ready? 
THE  ITALIAN  (without  moving) 

When  you  are. 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Well  then,  on  guard! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Wait  a  minute!    Wait  a  minute! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

What  do  you  want? 

THE   ITALIAN 

Think!     Stop  and  think! 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

Well? 

THE  ITALIAN  (in  his  best  professorial  manner) 
Either  you  will  kill  me  or  I  will  kill  you. 


IN  THE  RAVINE 


THE    AUSTRIAN 

Preferably  the  former. 
THE  ITALIAN  (nodding) 

According  to  the  point  of  view.     And  then? 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

What  do  you  mean? 

THE   ITALIAN 

The  survivor  —  who  will  probably  be  wounded  — 
what  will  happen  to  him? 

THE   AUSTRLAN 

The  survivor  will  rejoin  his  regiment. 

THE   ITALLAN 

Yes?      (Waving    his   arms   graphically)      By   flying 

there,  doubtless? 
THE  AUSTRLAN  (thunderstruck) 

I  never  thought  of  that. 
THE  ITALIAN  (seating  himself  comfortably,  and  lighting 

a  cigarette) 

Well,  think  of  it  now. 
THE  AUSTRLAN  (examining  the  icalls  which  hem  them  in) 

It's  only  thirty  feet  to  the  top. 
THE  ITALIAN  (blowing  smoke  rings  into  the  air) 

Thirty  feet  —  more  or  less. 

THE    AUSTRIAN 

And  it's  easy  enough  to  climb  out  here. 
[He  indicates  a  point  at  the  back. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Yes.     I  noticed  that  ten  minutes  ago. 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (continuing  his  explorations) 
Or  here ! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Or  anywhere  —  if  one  is  unwounded.  To  the  wounded 


78  IN  THE  RAVINE 

man  those  thirty  feet  represent  the  distance  between 
life  and  death  —  and  so  far  as  concerns  him,  they 
might  as  well  be  thirty  miles.  (With  a  pleasant  smile) 
Either  we  climb  out  unwounded  —  or  not  at  all. 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (with  a  broad  grin) 
Well,  after  you ! 

THE  ITALIAN  (laughing) 

I  couldn't  think  of  taking  precedence! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

There  is  no  reason  to  stand  on  ceremony. 
THE  ITALIAN  (sholdng  his  head  gently) 

Pressed  flat  against  the  cliff  side,  holding  on  with 

hands  and  feet,  I  am  afraid  the  temptation  to  pin 

me  fast  —  like  a  butterfly  on  a  card  —  might  be  too 

much  for  you. 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (testing  the  point  of  his  bayonet  thought- 

fully) 

Would  be  too  much  for  me. 
THE  ITALIAN  (amicably) 

Just  as  I  thought!     Now,  if  you  want  to  go  first  — 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  would  not  be  so  disrespectful,  professor! 
\JHe  returns  to  a  position  facing  the  Italian;    seats 
himself,  his  bayonet  resting  across  his  knees. 
THE  ITALIAN  (stating  the  problem  smilingly) 

It's  the  simplest  thing  under  the  sun.  Neither  of  us 
dares  climb  out. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

No. 

THE   ITALIAN 

If   we   fight,   the   survivor   will   either   freeze  —  or 


IN  THE  RAVINE  79 

starve  —  unless  he  is  lucky  enough  to  die  of  his 
wounds. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

And  if  we  don't  fight  — 

THE   ITALIAN 

Then  both  of  us. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Quite  so. 

THE  ITALIAN  (after   a   rather  serious   pause,   chuckling 
at  the  thought) 
I  warn  you  — 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Yes? 

THE   ITALIAN 

I  am  accustomed  to  late  hours. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

What  of  that? 

THE   ITALIAN 

You  will  probably  fall  asleep  first. 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (laughing) 

How  you  think  of  everything!     And  if  I  should  fall 

asleep  — 
THE  ITALIAN  (rubbing  his  hands,  and  gazing  innocently 

at  a  point  in  the  distance) 

If  you  should  fall  asleep  — 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

You  would  proceed  — 

THE   ITALIAN 

Immediately  — 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Or  even  sooner  —  (choosing  his  words  carefully)  — 
to  dissect  me. 


80  IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   ITALIAN 

With  the  greatest  pleasure! 

THE  AUSTRIAN 

And  the  greatest  expertness!  (The  Italian  raises 
his  hand  in  modest  protest)  The  expertness  which 
one  might  expect  of  a  professor  in  the  University 
of  Bologna! 

THE  ITALIAN  (correcting  him) 
Padua. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  beg  your  pardon? 

THE   ITALIAN 

The  University  of  Padua. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Ah,  yes!  Careless  of  me.  (He  resumes  the  subject) 
That  is  what  would  happen  if  I  fell  asleep.  But  you 
don't  imagine  that  my  masterpieces  were  executed 
in  a  few  minutes,  or  even  in  a  few  hours?  I  have 
worked  three  days  and  nights  on  a  difficult  signature ! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

The  work  is  sufficient  inspiration  in  itself  to  keep  me 
awake.  I  always  carry  paper  and  a  fountain  pen 
with  me.  I  shall  practise. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Oh! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

I  shall  combine  business  with  pleasure.  When  I 
leave  here  it  will  be  with  a  million  kronen  worth  of 
new  forgeries! 


IN  THE  RAVINE  81 

THE   ITALIAN 

Hm!     Executed  in  the  dark! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

What  do  you  mean? 

THE   ITALIAN 

I  take  it  that  an  ability  to  see  in  the  dark  is  not  one 
of  your  unusual  accomplishments? 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (biting  his  lip) 
No. 

THE   ITALIAN 

There  will  be  no  moon  to-night. 

THE   AUSTRL\N 

Oh!     So  that's  the  case! 
THE  ITALIAN  (with  an  expressive  gesture) 
There  will  be  a  game  of  blind  man's  buff. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

And  quite  probably  no  winner  at  all. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Quite  probably.  (There  is  a  pause;  they  look  at  each 
other  seriously)  If  we  fight  —  if  we  kill  each  other, 
our  lives  simply  cancel. 

THE  AUSTRL\N 

Yes. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Still  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  fight. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

We  are  enemies. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Our  countries  —  yours  and  mine  —  are  at  war. 

THE   AUSTRL\N 

To  let  each  other  go  is  out  of  the  question. 


82 IN  THE  RAVINE 

THE   ITALIAN 

Altogether. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

And  for  one  of  us  to  surrender  — 

THE   ITALIAN    (proudly) 

Not  I! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Why  not?    Isn't  your  life  valuable  to  your  country? 

THE   ITALIAN 

Not  as  valuable  as  my  death  can  be.  I  am  an  edu 
cated  man.  It  is  my  duty  to  set  an  example. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Example?    To  these  four  walls? 

THE   ITALIAN 

To  myself,  if  you  please:  because  my  self-respect, 
because  all  of  the  training  that  has  gone  to  make  me 
what  I  am,  does  not  permit  me  to  save  my  skin  in 
any  other  way! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Well  spoken,  professor! 

THE   ITALIAN 

And  you!    You  are  not  thinking  of  example? 
THE  AUSTRIAN  (lightly) 

Why  not?    A  thief  once  died  on  a  cross. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Is  that  why? 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (shaking  his  head) 
Fashions  are  not  set  by  criminals. 

THE   ITALIAN 

Well,  then? 


IN  THE  RAVINE  83 

THE  AUSTRIAN  (shamefacedly  at  first;  then  with  growing 
exaltation) 

Well,  then,  this  country  of  mine,  this  country  which 
has  hounded  me  from  one  city  to  another,  which  has 
released  me  from  one  jail  but  to  clap  me  into  the 
next,  which  has  set  a  reward  upon  my  head  and  its 
police  at  my  heels,  damn  it  all,  I  love  my  country! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Well  spoken,  criminal!  (He  pauses)  Fight  it  is. 
We  will  climb  together  —  you  over  there,  I  here. 
We  will  reach  the  top  together.  Then,  when  we  have 
reached  the  top  — 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

To  the  death,  professor! 

THE   ITALIAN 

To  the  death! 

[They  move  toward  the  indicated  places,  icatching  each 
other  furtively.  Suddenly  tlie  Italian  breaks  into  a 
peculiar  laugh. 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Well? 

THE   ITALIAN 

I  am  thinking:  what  a  fate,  if  I,  professor  of  biology, 
am  slain  by  a  forger! 

THE   AUSTRIAN 

No  worse  than  mine:    the  greatest  forger  of  the 
twentieth  century  to  be  slain  by  a  professor  —  and 
of  biology! 
[They  laugh. 
THE  ITALIAN  (sharply) 
Are  you  ready? 


84  IN  THE  RAVINE     

THE   AUSTRIAN 

Yes! 

THE   ITALIAN 

Then  —  to  our  next  meeting! 

[Both  men  come  to  attention;    salute.     Then,  facing 

about,  they  begin  to  climb  rapidly. 

THE   CURTAIN  FALLS 


VALKYRIE! 

Opus  1$ 


•       1      '  J    i 

/  . 

l.    ^CC^^ 

-'     >u>G 


VALKYRIE! 

The  lights  are  extinguished. 
The  prologue  is  spoken  by  a  male  voice. 
The  curtain  rises  upon  the  first  words. 
Until  the  prologue  is  finished  the  lighting  shows  the 
upper  half  of  the  scene  only. 

It  is  night  —  night  between  the  battles. 
Before  us,  a  level  plain.  Dotting  it,  disfiguring  it, 
most  hideously  marring  it,  the  wounded,  the  dying, 
the  dead.  Paralleling  each  other,  on  either  side, 
running  onward  as  far  as  the  sight  of  the  eye  will 
reach,  trenches  hastily  —  but  scientifically  —  dug  in 
the  clayey  mud.  And  in  them,  cursing  the  freezing 
water  which  is  up  to  their  knees,  cursing  the  vermin 
which  swarms  unmolested  about  them,  but  cursing 
each  other  most  of  all,  men,  many  men,  ready  to  die, 
expecting  to  die,  some  of  them  hoping  to  die.  A  little 
while  ago  and  they  were  tradesmen,  professors,  stu 
dents  of  philosophy,  thieves.  Now  pleb  and  patri 
cian,  scum  and  upper  crust,  mingle  quite  amiably, 
considering  the  circumstances,  fight  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  quarrel  as  equals,  and  are  buried,  when 
their  turn  comes,  in  a  company  vastly  unbefitting 
their  caste,  rank,  social  position. 
Quiet  —  but  a  fearful  quiet  punctuated  by  the  groans 
of  those  whose  sufferings  have  passed  the  point  of 
endurance.  For  the  narrow  rectangle  which  shifts 

87 


88  VALKYRIE 


weekly  a  few  yards  in  either  direction  is  a  vial  of 
agony  —  and  overflows. 

Overhead,  an  occasional  rift  in  the  wind-driven  clouds 
lets  through  a  pale,  shuddering  beam  of  moonlight. 
In  the  distance,  coming  into  sight,  and  melting  into 
blackness  as  the  scurrying  clouds  separate  and  come 
together  again,  looms  the  tottering  spire  of  a  ruined 
church.  Here,  not  so  long  past,  country  people  in 
blouses  and  sabots  prayed  that  their  Maker  would 
guard  them  from  "war,  pestilence,  and  sudden 
death."  Here,  a  month  ago,  men  wearing  flat- 
topped  caps  prayed  that  that  same  Maker  would 
destroy  other  men  wearing  spiked  helmets,  and  here, 
a  week  later,  the  men  of  the  spiked  helmets  prayed 
for  the  destruction  of  them  of  the  flat-topped  caps. 
And  even  as  in  olden  times  the  heathen  disfigured 
the  idol  who  failed  to  comply  with  his  request,  so 
the  men  of  the  caps  and  the  men  of  the  helmets  and 
the  men  who  once  wore  blouses  have  alternated 
between  supplication  and  bombardment,  between 
hymns  and  high  explosives. 

The  ear  of  their  common  Deity  has  been  assailed 
indifferently  by  the  voice  of  the  chorister  and  the 
voice  of  the  cannon,  but  remaining  apparently  deaf, 
His  house  bears  the  marks  of  savage  violence.  So 
that  now  it  has  become  unsafe  to  offer  prayer  in  the 
shattered  edifice,  and,  as  in  the  beginning,  the  Master 
is  again  addressed  in  the  open  fields,  with  sacrifice, 
with  fire,  and  with  burnt  offering.  In  the  distance 
the  church,  builded  by  the  love  of  man  in  times  of 
peace,  unbuilded  by  the  hate  of  man  in  times  of  war, 
silhouettes  murkily  against  the  livid  background. 


VALKYRIE  89 


But  here,  under  the  uncertain  moonlight,  God  is  near 
to  His  children,  and  beyond  the  clouds  lie  the  stars. 
The  voice  ceases.  } 

A  little  light  is  permitted  to  reach  the  lower  part  of  the 
scene. 

There  is  a  loncj  pause. 

Suddenly,  barely  a  dozen  yards  away,  a  dim  figure 
struggles  to  ite  feet;  and  a  faltering  voice  intones  the  first 
words  of  the  Lord's  Prayer:  "Our  Father,  Which  art  in 
f  leaven  ..."  ^A^nmdf^d-feet  to  tlie  right  a  single 
rifle  speaks.  A  momentary  flash,  a  crackling  report,, 
which  echoes  into-hisfetrit  stis?*^  and  the  trembling  figure 
collapses  limply,  sagging  oddly  in  unexpected  places  —  like 
a  torn  bag  of  oats  —  and  tlie  prayer  remains  unfinished. 
From  the  English  trenches,  a  hundred  feet  to  tlie  left,  half 
a  dozen  rifles  yelp  in  answer,  aiming  at  the  flash.  And 
again  there  is  silence.  ^ 

In  the  foreground,  quite  near  to  us^  so  close  tliat  his 
sudden  discovery  by  a  wandering  moonbeam  startles  us, 
a   wounded    Gentian    officer,  ^'inconspicuously    propping 
himself  up  on  the  knqpsack  which  h#  has  taken  from,  ilw    .«-• 
body  of  a  dead  soldier  ^spccifo  imcmotionatty. 


.  M  j          •: 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Narr! 
A  BRITISH  OFFICER  (aho  wounded;  some  five  feet  away) 

I  beg  your  pardon? 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (speaking  in  perfect  English)  t 

Oh!     You're  still  alive? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER    (nodding) 

Yes  —  still  alive. 


90  VALKYRIE 


THE   GERMAN    OFFICER 

An  hour  more  or  less  —  what  does  it  matter? 
[There  is  a  pause. 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (shifting  an  inch  painfully) 
What  was  it  you  said  before? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

That  poor  fool  down  there  —  you  saw  him? 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

No.     My  head  was  turned  the  other  way. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER 

He  stood  up. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Stood  up? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

With  a  hundred  men  waiting  for  a  target. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

They  got  him? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

The  first  shot. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Killed,  I  suppose. 

THE    GERMAN    OFFICER 

For  his  sake,  I  hope  so. 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (after  a  pause) 
God  rest  his  soul! 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER 

Hm!     (A  thoughtful  silence)     Amen. 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (after  another  pause) 
Have  a  cigarette? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

What? 


VALKYRIE  91 


THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Here;  in  the  pocket  of  my  tunic.  I  can't  reach 
them. 

THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (laughing  softly) 

A  cigarette?  With  my  men  watching,  you  would 
never  finish  lighting  it. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

^didn't  think  of  that. 

[He  is  silent. 

THE   GERMAN  OFFICER 

We  Germans  smoke  pipes;  German  pipes,  with  metal 
lids.  You  can't  see  the  fire  in  the  bowl  a  foot  away. 
Your  men  smoke  cigarettes.  We  can  see  them  from 
our  trenches. 

THE  BRITISH   OFFICER 

Well? 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (shrugging  his  shoulders') 

At  night  —  we  aim  a  trifle  higher  than  the  glow. 
(He  waves  his  hand  expressively)  Then  —  sometimes 
—  the  cigarette  goes  out. 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (after  a  pause) 
German  efficiency. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Thoroughness  in  all  things. 
[He  nods  gravely. 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (with  a  shudder) 

But  horrible  to  think  of!  The  fighting  over.  Star 
light  —  and  darkness  —  and  thoughts  of  home. 
And  suddenly  a  crash  —  a  bullet  through  bone  and 
tissue  —  and  thought  ends ! 


92  VALKYRIE 


THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (smiling  patiently) 
Horrible,  you  think? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

To  die  in  fair  fight;  to  see  the  face  of  your  enemy  — 
that's  another  thing!  But  at  night!  Perhaps  when 
you're  smiling  over  your  last  letter  from  home,  your 
mind  full  of  pictures  which  have  nothing  to  do  with 
war!  Your  body  in  the  trenches,  but  your  thoughts 
a  thousand  miles  away !  And  then  —  then  —  ! 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  GROUND  (a  faint  voice,  with  some 
thing  of  a  fine  poetic  fervor  in  it) 

Then  —  the  Valkyrie ! 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (starting  violently) 

What? 
THE  SAME  SPEAKER  (a  fair-haired  lad  of  twenty-six  or 

seven;  a  German  private  soldier) 

Then  the  Valkyrie,  who  comes  to  carry  the  soul  of 

the  dead  hero  to  Valhalla ! 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (blankly) 

Valhalla?     Valhalla  in  the  twentieth  century? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Hist! 

[For  the  benefit  of  the  British  Officer  he  touches  his 
finger  to  his  forehead  in  an  expressive  gesture. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Oh! 

[The  soldier  has  relapsed  into  his  former  stupor.     The 

officers  look  at  him  curiously. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER    (sotto  VOCe) 

Last  night  he  was  one  of  a  rescue  party  that  tried  to 
bring  me  back.  They  failed. 


VALKYRIE  93 


THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (horrified  at  the  thought) 

And  you've  been  here  two  nights? 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (with  the  suggestion  of  a  laugh) 

Two?     Three. 

THE    BRITISH    OFFICER    (appalled) 

Good  Lord! 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (with  polite  interest} 

You're  not  used  to  that  kind  of  thing,  are  you? 
(The  British  Officer  shakes  his  head)  Thought  so. 
Volunteer? 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Yes.     Landed  three  weeks  ago. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Well,  men  get  used  to  anything  —  when  it's  necessary. 
(He  pauses,  to  continue  impersonally)  It's  not  easy 
to  move  me,  that's  the  trouble.  My  thigh  is  broken 
—  a  piece  of  shrapnel,  I  think  —  or  they  would  have 
brought  me  back  the  first  night. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 


THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Of  course.  (He  pauses)  A  sound  louder  than  an 
ordinary  speaking  voice  would  have  been  fatal,  and 
when  they  try  to  move  you  —  and  your  thigh  is 
broken  —  sometimes  it's  beyond  endurance.  (He 
pauses  again)  Last  night  they  would  have  succeeded. 
They  brought  along  morphine,  and  they  gave  me  a 
hypodermic.  Only  the  moon  came  out  at  the 
wrong  time.  They  had  to  go  back  —  and  they  left 
the  boy  behind. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Badly  wounded? 


94  VALKYRIE 


THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

I  don't  know  .  .  .    He's  been  quiet  all  day. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

I  saw  him,  but  I  thought  he  was  dead.  (He  pauses, 
to  look  at  the  soldier  with  a  new  feeling  of  interest) 
Young,  isn't  he? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Yes. 

\_There  is  a  pause. 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (shaldng  his  head) 
So  little  gained! 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

What  do  you  mean? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

If  they  had  succeeded  in  bringing  you  back,  it  might 
have  been  worth  while.     As  it  is,  simply  another  life 
thrown  away. 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (patiently) 

The  attempt  was  worth  making,  wasn't  it? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

To  rescue  your  officer?    Yes. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER    (simply) 

It  is  far  better  to  fail  than  not  to  try. 
{There  is  a  pause. 

THE  SOLDIER  (speaking  again  in  his  delirium) 

In  the  old  days,  sword  and  buckler.  To-day,  poison 
gas  and  rapid-fire  guns.  But  above  it  all,  far  above 
the  battles,  the  Valkyrie!  The  Valkyrie! 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (with  a  touch  of  contempt) 
The  credo  of  the  Hun. 


VALKYRIE  95 


THE    GERMAN   OFFICER 

It  impresses  you  that  way? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Like  the  Moslem  —  looking  forward  to  Paradise  — 
and  the  Houris. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER    (critically) 

Houris  and  Valkyries?     Not  much  similarity. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Even  then? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

What  is  your  faith? 

THE    BRITISH    OFFICER 

The  faith  of  a  Christian. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER 

Heaven?     A  peaceful  heaven? 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

So  I  trust. 

THE    GERMAN   OFFICER 

What  a  lot  of  fighting  you  are  doing  to  get  there! 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (with  the  shadow  of  a  smile) 
But  if  it  is  worth  the  fighting? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Clouds?     Fog?     Thousands    of    Englishmen?     And 

dullness?   Deadly  dullness?    (He  shudders)  How  like 

London ! 

\_There  is  a  long  pause.     The  British  Officer  smiles; 

makes  up  his  mind  to  say  something;   thinks  better  of 

it. 

THE    SOLDIER 

In  Valhalla  they  fight;    and  when  they  are  tired  of 


96  VALKYRIE 


fighting,  they  sit  down  together  as  friends,  and  tell 
of  their  battles.     And  then  they  fight  again  —  and 
the  Valkyries  hover  about  them ! 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (nodding  emphatically) 

A  belief  in  heaven,  a  heaven  of  peace,  is  very  beautiful. 
But  for  my  regiment,  for  the  men  I  am  to  command, 
give  me  a  belief  in  a  fighting  heaven. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

The  boy  is  delirious.  Nobody  takes  that  sort  of 
thing  seriously. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

-Of  course  not. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Poetic,  and  noble:  what  you  will.  But  it's  rot, 
absolute  rot. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

The  most  beautiful  kind  of  rot.  Serious  beliefs, 
well-reasoned  theologies,  and  we  Germans  are  not 
bad  at  that  sort  of  thing,  may  answer  for  times  of 
peace.  But  when  the  bugles  are  blowing,  and  the 
thunder  of  cannon  is  in  the  air,  give  me  a  thought 
to  fire  my  brain  as  a  strong  wine  fires  my  body! 
Give  me  something  to  inspire  me!  Something  to 
set  my  heart  beating  and  the  blood  racing  through 
my  veins!  Away  with  your  beliefs!  Give  me 
ideals!  (He  pauses)  Afterwards  —  long  afterwards 

—  when  we  have  time  to  sit  down  and  reason  it 
out  together,  we  may  admit  that  our  ideals  were 

—  well  — 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

False? 


VALKYRIE  97 


THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (shaking  his  heady  and  emphasiz 
ing  the  icord) 

Poetic,  as  you  said  —  too  beautiful  to  be  true.  But 
when  we  see  the  face  of  the  enemy,  hear  the  click 
of  the  men  behind  us  fixing  their  bayonets,  sense 
the  short,  sharp  breathing  of  our  neighbors,  and 
find  out  that  we  too  are  breathing  short  and  sharp, 
back  we  go  to  our  ideals !  Long  live  the  Valkyrie ! 

THE   SOLDIER 

Long  live  the  Valkyrie! 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

The  fighter  goes  to  his  reward! 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

The  fighter  —  fair  or  foul. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Fair  or  foul  —  does  it  matter? 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

It  matters  why  he  is  fighting.     It  takes  a  good  cause 
to  justify  a  fight. 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (with  solemnity) 

A  good  fight  justifies  any  cause!  Right  and  wrong? 
(He  shakes  his  head)  I  don't  know.  You  don't  know. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Then  why  not  find  out? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

We  are  giving  a  million  lives  to  find  out. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

And  if  you  are  wrong? 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

A  world  where  men  are  willing  to  die  to  find  out  if 
they  are  wrong  is  a  world  worth  living  in  —  or  dying 
for. 


98  VALKYRIE 


THE  SOLDIER  (after  a  pause) 

A  few  days  —  or  a  month  ago  —  I  don't  know  which 
—  she  sang  for  us,  back  of  the  trenches. 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

What  is  he  talking  about? 
THE  SOLDIER  (sings  a  fragment  of  the  melody  of  Wagner's 

"Ride  of  the  Valkyrie") 

Hoy-oh-to-ho ! 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (explaining) 

One  of  the  Red  Cross  nurses;  before  the  war  she  was 

a  famous  opera  singer.     She  sang  for  the  men. 

THE   SOLDIER 

The  Valkyrie !     She  sang !     God,  how  she  sang ! 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (to  the  British  Officer) 

It's  from  Wagner.     You  know  the  melody. 
THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (nodding) 

We  could  hear  it  in  our  trenches. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

What  you  call  one  of  our  false  ideals.  My  brain 
tells  me  there  is  no  Valkyrie.  It's  nothing  but  an 
old  Norse  legend,  with  as  much  truth  to  it  as  Odin 
and  Thor.  But  when  that  song  rings  out,  you 
clench  your  fists,  and  see  red,  and  —  and  everything 
is  unreal  but  the  Valkyrie! 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Yes,  I  understand. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Vvtt  ~~  False  as  hell,  if  you  like,  but  beautiful!  Beautiful! 
\It  has  been  growing  darker  steadily.  In  the  distance 
the  ruined  church  has  long  ago  vanished  from  sight. 
The  moon  overhead  is  hidden  by  clouds. 


VALKYRIE  99 


£A  rocket  screams  into  the  air  from  the  German  lines 
and  explodes,  illuminating  the  ground  beneath  with 
ghastly  distinctness.  There  is  a  burst  of  firing  from 
either  side.  The  rocket  goes  out.  Silence. 
THE  GERMAN  OFFICER  (in  almost  impenetrable  darkness) 
They  will  be  coming  for  me  any  minute  now.  You 
will  give  no  alarm,  I  hope. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

Your  men  must  stop  here.  No  surprise  attacks, 
you  know. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

I  give  you  my  word.     No  alarm? 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

No  alarm. 
^There  is  a  pause. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

If  they  bring  me  back  safely  I  will  send  them  here  to 
get  you. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER    (lightly) 

Hardly  worth  while.     I  'm  done  for. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

We'll  give  you  a  chance  anyhow. 

THE   BRITISH   OFFICER 

And  the  boy. 

THE   GERMAN   OFFICER 

Of  course  the  boy. 

^There  is  anotJier  pause.  Then,  in  the  utter  darkness, 
the  voice  of  the  delirious  soldier  drills  itself  into  one's 
consciousness  with  an  uncanny  effect. 

THE   SOLDIER 

The  Valkyrie !  High  above  the  battles,  the  Valkyrie ! 
Not  where  the  whirring  of  looms,  not  where  the  buzz 


100  VALKYRIE 


of  machines  fills  the  air,  but  where  the  cannon  crash, 
where  the  shouts  of  fighting  men  rise  to  the  sky, 
where  blows  are  struck  and  blood  flows,  the  Valkyrie ! 

THE   BRITISH    OFFICER 

Not  so  loud,  boy. 

THE  SOLDIER  (disregarding  him) 

To  die,  not  in  bed,  with  doctors  and  nurses  around, 
and  the  smell  of  medicines  in  your  nostrils,  but  to 
die  in  fair  fight  with  your  enemy,  your  rifle  in  your 
hand,  and  your  head  cradled  on  the  breast  of  the 
Valkyrie ! 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (trying  to  soothe  him) 
Quiet !    Quiet,  for  God's  sake ! 

THE   SOLDIER 

In  Valhalla  the  heroes  fight,  and  wounds  are  given, 
but  the  Valkyrie  heals  them,  and  they  fight  again ! 
[As  if  his  voice  were  that  of  a  soloist  leading  an  invisible 
orchestra,  an  uncertain  sound  of  musketry  fire  in  the 
far  distance  gradually  approaches,  and  now,  like 
instruments  hurling  their  voices  into  the  unison,  explodes 
into  a  deafening  uproar.  Rockets  soar  into  the  air 
from  either  side,  and  as  if  their  bursting  were  another 
signal,  a  noisy,  whistling  wind  sweeps  the  clouds  from 
the  face  of  the  moon.  The  battlefield,  gaunt,  naked,  bare 
of  trees  and  vegetation,  is  revealed  in  a  cold,  white 
light  —  and  from  right  and  left,  eager,  palpitating 
tongues  of  red  fire  leap  from  the  throats  of  a  thousand 
restless  weapons.  The  German  Officer  has  vanished  — 
whether  in  safety  or  otherwise  one  may  not  know  —  but 
the  Soldier's  voice,  high,  triumphant,  insistent,  struggles 
with  the  fearful  din. 


VALKYRIE  101 


THE    SOLDIER 

Valkyrie!  Valkyrie!  Hear  me!  Valkyrie!  Hear 
me! 

£His  voice  is  lost  in  the  awful  uproar.     And  then,  as  a 
storm  lulls  in  tJie  midst  of  its  fury,  the  firing  ceases. 
Silence  —  an  all  pervading  silence,  follows  with  some 
thing  of  a  shock  upon  the  deafening  waves  of  sound. 
A  pause. 

THE  SOLDIER  (faintly,  in  desperate  appeal) 
Valkyrie !     Hear  me ! 

[On  the  instant,  suddenly,  abruptly,  from  behind  the 
German  trenches,  rises  a  woman's  voice,  a  God-given 
soprano,  in  the  piercing  notes  of  the  battle-cry  of  the 
Valkyrie. 

THE  VOICE   IN  THE   DISTANCE 

Hoy-oh-to-ho !    Hoy-oh-to-ho ! 
THE  SOLDIER  (wildly  excited) 
The  Valkyrie! 

THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (almost  sobbing  in  his  anxiety) 
Quiet,  you  fool! 

THE  VOICE   IN   THE   DISTANCE 

Hoy-oh-to-ho! 

THE  SOLDIER  (springs  to  his  feet  in  ecstasy,  raising  his 
arms  to  the  skies  in  frenzied  supplication) 
Valkyrie !     Valkyrie ! 

[The  report  of  a  single  rifle  crashes  through  the  silence. 
The  expression  of  ecstasy  does  not  leave  the  face  of  the 
Soldier,  but  over  his  features  steals  a  surprised  smile, 
as  if  in  that  instant  some  heavenly  vista  had  opened 
before  his  eyes.!  And  his  knees  bend  quite  slowly, 
and  his  body,  like  some  worn-out  garment,  slips  lifeless 
to  the  ground. 


102  VALKYRIE 


THE  BRITISH  OFFICER  (sobbing  openly) 
Killed !     The  fool !     Oh,  the  fool ! 
[Pandemonium  breaks  out  again,  but  strong,  uncon 
querable,  supreme  above  the  uproar,  the  song  in  the 
distance  rises  higher  —  higher  —  ! 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS   GENTLY 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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